m 


\m\\s 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


, 


CHARLES    L.    H.    WAGNER 


CRADLED 
MOONS 


A   BOOK  OF  POEMS 

BY 

CHARLES   L.   H.   WAGNER 


OLD    MOONS   CRADLED    IN   THE    \F.\Y 

Olden  thoughts  with  lustre  bright, 
Gleaned  and  garnered  by  the  light 
Of  the  mystic  queen  of  night. 

And  each  old  thought  seems  to  rest 
Snugly  in  a  new  one's  breast, 
Like  an  old  moon  in  its  nest. 


PUBLISHED    BY 
THE    MANYCRAFTS    SHOP 

249   WASHINGTON   STREET 
BOSTON,  MASS. 


COPYRIGHT  1919 
CHARLES  L.  H.  WAGNER 


GEORGE  E.   CROSBY  Co.   PRINTER" 
394  Atlantic  Ave,  Boston 


DEDICATION 

THIS  BOOK  is  dedicated  to  my  Wife,  to  whom 
I  owe  much  of  its  inspiration. 

Like  the  beautiful  Ariadne  of  Greek  mythology, 
who,  because  of  her  love  for  Theseus,  gave  to  him 
a  clew  of  thread  by  which  he  guided  himself  from 
out  the  mysterious  paths  of  the  Cretan  labyrinths, 
so,  indeed,  has  my  good  angel  often  assisted  me 
when  I  have  been  seemingly  helpless  in  the 
labyrinth  of  my  ideas,  and  by  the  simple  clew  of 
woman's  divine,  intuitive  knowledge,  has  given  me 
the  thread  which  led  into  the  bright  sun  of  progress. 

She  it  is  who  has  suggested  from  time  to  time 
many  of  the  thoughts  which  I  have  herein  am 
plified,  and  to  her,  more  than  to  any  other  person, 
I  shall  be  indebted,  should  my  humble  work  find 
favor  with  those  who  peruse  its  pages. 


I  DESIRE  to  express  my  sense  of  indebtedness 
to  the  many  friends  whose  helpful  words  of  encour 
agement  have  inspired  me  in  the  writing  of  these 
verses;  to  my  Father  and  Mother,  who,  by  their 
example  and  precepts,  inculcated  in  me  the  ideals 
which  permeate  this  book,  I  am  and  should  be 
beholden.  I  trust  that  they  will  never  have  cause 
to  regret  the  life  which  combines  many  of  the 
qualities  and  traits  of  each  of  them. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  11 


INTRODUCTION 
By  WILLIAM  STANLEY  BRAITHWAITE 

No  art  is  capable,  unless  it  be  music,  of  so  many  fine 
shades  of  expressing  human  feeling  and  emotion  as  the 
art  of  poetry.  If  music  be  as  various,  the  results  are 
lost  relatively  through  the  abstractions  which  are  both 
its  language  and  its  substance.  Poetry  in  its  highest 
sense  has  the  quality  of  music,  it  originates  from  the 
same  abstractions,  but  these  abstractions  become  ma 
terialized  in  the  jmagery  that  is  the  language  of  poetry. 
Poetry,  therefore,  is  more  infinite  in  substance,  more 
various  in  expression  than  any  of  the  arts  practiced  by 
man.  And  while  all  the  arts  besides  poetry,  with  the 
possible  exception  of  painting,  must  deal  with  themes 
and  subjects,  that  are  in  themselves  exalted,  or  lend 
themselves,  readily,  to  the  evocation  of  symbols  en 
nobling  their  effects  by  wonder  and  mystery,  poetry  can 
deal  with  themes  and  objects  homely  in  themselves,  and 
by  the  essence  of  pleasure,  which  is  a  large  part  of  its 
function,  make  those  common  themes  and  objects  at 
tractive  and  distinguished  without  altering  their  essen 
tial  aspects  as  the  poet  finds  them.  The  degree  of 
perfection  in  which  poetry  renders  the  physical  and 
spiritual  world  of  the  poet's  imagination  is  in  trans 
muting  object  and  emotion  into  a  magic  that  becomes 
visible  through  some  indefinable  utterance.  The  magic 
may  lie  beneath  the  surface  of  the  utterance,  or  shimmer 
over  it  like  an  atmosphere.  One  meets  it  in  a  word,  a 
line,  or  a  stanza,  rarely  in  the  whole  body  of  English 
poetry,  an  onrippled  under-current  or  an  undarkened 
luminosity  in  an  entire  single  poem.  Scott,  in  his  pro 
lific  bodv  of  work,  achieved  it  in  a  few  lines  in  the  short 


12  CRADLED     MOOXS 

lyric,  "Proud  Maisie;"  Keats  in  those  famous  lines  in 
the  "Ode  to  a  Nightingale" ;  Coleridge  more  often  than 
any  other  poet  in  "Kubla  Khan,"  in  several  lines  in 
"Christabel" ;  Webster  in  one  lyrical  passage;  Shakes 
peare  in  a  number  of  lyrics.  English  poetry  is  prodigal 
of  all  the  other  qualities  that  make  it  as  an  art  a  delight 
to  the  emotions  and  a  winged  aspiration  to  the  spirit. 
These  qualities,  embodying  many  manners  of  speech, 
many  modes  of  thought  and  feeling,  in  which  human 
nature  in  all  its  conspicuous  purposes  is  given  expres 
sion,  are  at  the  core  of  all  earnest  and  quickened  utter 
ance.  The  claim  to  attention  that  the  poems  in  this 
volume  put  forward  is  upon  the  good  ground  of  pos 
sessing  these  qualities  in  an  understandable  degree. 

Mr.  Wagner  displays  in  this  volume  a  very  varied 
interest  and  sympathy.  He  is  a  poet  to  whom  one  can 
trust  oneself  with  absolute  faith.  Where  so  many 
modern  poets  are  devastating  faiths  and  traditions, 
exercising  with  superfine  emotions  delicate  instincts  in 
the  attempt  to  discover  the  subtle  nothingness  of  dreams 
and  passions,  he  is  very  sane  and  wholesome  in  his  grasp 
upon  the  complexities  of  common  life  through  "the 
strength  of  affirming."  The  kernel  of  this  affirmation 
is  contained  in  these  lines  of  his: 

"For    in    those    old    thoughts    we    hut    live    again, 

And  what  is  life  hut  simply  doing  o'er 
The  old  time  things  with  all  their  joy  and  pain, 

And  modern  wisdom  is  hut  ancient  lore. 
Eternity,   when   summed   up,  means   hut  this; 

There   is   no   old,   there   is    no   new,   and   youth 
When   touched   by   Time's    regenerating  kiss 

Receives  a  vision  of  eternal  truth." 

The  thought  here,  which  is  a  wise  one  for  any  poet  to 
hold  in  Iris  relation  to  life  and  the  world,  may  be  sup 
plemented  at  this  point  by  calling  attention  to  an  op 
posite,  suggesting  the  rounding  out  of  the  character  of 
Mr.  Wagner's  poetic  mind,  and  found  in  his  poem, 
"Advice  to  Poets." 

I  have  indicated  a  level  of  thought  and  feeling  in  Mr. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  13 

Wagner's  poetry  from  which  lie  is  able  to  extend  his 
sympathy  and  emotion  to  various  points  of  human  ex 
perience.  He  catches  the  significance  of  all  that  comes 
within  the  range  of  his  poetic  mind  with  extraordinary 
quickness.  He  has  the  power  of  extracting  the  heart 
interest,  which  is,  after  all,  the  significant  sentiment  in 
song,  and  turning  back  to  us  the  experience  with  fami 
liar  recollection.  It  is  the  appealing  quality  of  his 
work.  In  doing  this  he  knows  how  to  turn  the  helpful 
aspect  of  life  up  to  us.  He  is  profound  in  his  cheer 
fulness,  a  cheerfulness  that  sometimes  is  full-bodied 
beneath  the  surface  with  the  gravest  questionings  of  life 
and  fate.  Take  the  thirty-one  poems  that  make  the 
sequence  addressed  to  Sir  Johnston  Forbes-Robertson 
as  a  tribute  to  his  interpretation  of  the  "Beautiful 
Character  of  the  'Passer-by,'  "  and  one  finds  a  poem 
that  is  admirable  and  beautiful  in  its  moods  and  thoughts 
and  ideals,  a  poem  that  ought  to  win  for  its  author  an 
instant  recognition.  Into  this  sequence  there  is  a 
glamor  and  subtlety  that  streaks  the  thought  like  a  fine 
vein  of  gold.  I  shall  quote  here  the  second  poem  which 
is  called  "Wilful  Women": 

Women  are  wilful,  and  the  kindest  are 

Truly  the  wilfulest.     'Twas  always  so. 
For  e'en  in  my  poor  home  my  brightest  star 
-.,>  Which   in   life's   darkest   spots   reflects   its   glow 
And  guides  me  towards  that  goal  I  long  have  sought 

Hath   seemed   at   times   so   wilful   in   its   way 
That   I   re-belled   and  wandered  in  my  thought 

As  mMlly  as  careens»the  owl  in  day. 


\ll 


I   fain   would   choose  and  choose   for  self   alone. 

And  .choosing  thus,  have  stumbled  oft  and*fell, 
And   only    by   the   light   of  love  that   shone, 

Though  wilful,  have  I  saved  my  soul  from  hell. 
For   I   nave  learned   that   woman's   wilful  mind 

Bespeaks   a    deep   and    underlying  plan 
Which  elevates,  ennobles  human-kind 

And   makes  me   i'or  the   nonce  a  tetter  man. 


there   is   a  touch   of   the   Elizabethan   manner   in 


14  CRADLED     MOONS 

thege  lines,  a  credit  to  Mr.  Wagner's  instinctive  artless- 
ness  of  art. 

The  themes  that  Mr.  Wagner  deals  with  are  too 
numerous  and  varied  to  classify  in  this  brief  introduc 
tion.  An  alert  and  ready  sympathy  gives  his  work  a 
sense  of  the  universal.  He  is  a  poet  who  expresses  for 
each  reader  some  particular  interest.  Hardly  anyone 
but  who  will  find  in  this  volume  the  rendering  of  some 
dumb  thought  or  feeling,  emotion  or  idea,  which  they 
have  carried  about  in  childhood,  in  youth,  in  the  noon 
day  of  life,  or  in  old  age ;  during  some  moment  of  hope 
or  sorrow,  aspiration  or  love. 


CRADLED     MOONS  15 

INDEX 

PAGE 

FOR  WHOM  SHALL  I  WRITE  ? 23 

TO  AN   ABSENT    MUSE 24 

•  THE  FERN 25 

MY    MOTHER 26 

THE  PATH  THAT  BRINGS  ME  HOME 27 

LILAC    BLOOMS 29 

I  'SHALL  KNOW  REST 31 

LOVE'S  MISTS 32 

THE  HUMAN  LINCOLN 33 

THE  VILLAGE  SCHOOL 34 

MY  EYES  ARE  YOUNG 39 

THINK  ON  EMPIRES 40 

YOU  SIMPLY  CAN'T 41 

BEAUTIFUL   NIGHT 43 

THE  MIDNIGHT  HOUR .' 44 

THE    TIME    OF    THE    SINGING    BIRD    IS 

COME     45 

THE  JUDAS  WINDS  ON  CODMAN  HILL 46 

THE  SECOND   MILE 48 

WHO  IS  MY  NEIGHBOR? 49 

DISAPPOINTMENT    49 

THE  LAND  OF  MEMORY 50 

THE  SERMON  OF  THE  LILIES   51 

THE  DOCTOR '.  .  .  .  52 

JUST  A  SIMPLE  LITTLE  FLOWER 54 

WHIRLWINDS    55 

SWEET  ABBIE  AT  THE  SPRING 56 

I  AM  ONLY  DREAMING,  DREAMING 57 

THE  MOON,  THE  CLOUDS  AND  THE  WIND  58 

MY  BUTTERFLY   59 

THE  BLAME   60 

THE  DAWN  61 

THE  LAND  OF  SHADOWS 62 

THE  WOMAN  IN  MY  ARMS 63 

WHISPERING  FLOWERS  64 

SUNSET  IN  TREASURE  VALLEY 65 

LINES  TO  THE  BOSTON  Y.  M.  C.  A 66 

THE  FINISHED  HOUSE    . 67 

THE  YARN  OF  THE  "BILLOWS  QUEEN"..  69 


16  CRADLED     MOONS 

PAGE 

TO  AX  OLD,  OLD  BOOK 82 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  RUSHING  FLOOD 83 

OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS 81 

TO  THE  FAIR  UNKNOWN 85* 

WHO  IS  CONTEXT? 86 

HAPPINESS 87 

THE  "CLOSED-INS" •. 88 

TO  A  FALLEN  TREE 89 

THE   BECKONING  HILLS   90 

THE  BLUE  HILLS  OF  MILTON 91 

OX  CHICATAWBUT  HILL 93 

THE  GHOST  OF  THE  CRAGS 95 

THE  SPIRIT   BOUND    102 

THE   FIRST   CALL    103 

THE  SOUNDING  BOARD 103 

THE  SHADOW  MEN    104 

HIS  SOUL  FLOWERS 104 

IX  THE  SILENT  REACHES  OF  MY  SOUL..  105 

THE  SPIRIT  OF   MIRTH 105 

SLUMBERING    YESTERDAYS    106 

THE  SADDEST  TIME   107 

MY   STUDY    108 

THE  SPIDER    108 

THE   BLUE  WAKE    109 

MY  SWEETHEART'S  EYES   112 

POEMS  OF   PARENTHOOD: 

FATHER    113 

IT  WOULD  BE  NICE   113 

I  WANT  TO  BE  'SIDE  OF  PAPA 115 

A   LITTLE  OUTSTRETCHED  HAND    117 

A  WORTHWHILE   THEME 118 

DISGRACE   CORNER    121 

POLLIKINS    123 

THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  SUNSHINE   124 

BARBEE    125 

KING  ROBERT 126 

MY  BABY'S  LIPS 126 

THE   MEASURES  OF   LOVE    127 

THE   PRICE   WE   PAY    .  129 


CRADLED     MOONS  17 

PAGE 

A   NOBLE   THOUGHT    129 

MY    LADY: 

MY  LADY'S  MORNING  SONG   .  ..  130 

MY  LADY'S  WITCHING   DANCE    131 

MY  LADY'S  PRETTY   NAME    132 

MY  LADY  OF  THE  VIOLIN    133 

MY  LADY'S  WONDROUS   HAIR    134 

MY  LADY'S  GLEAMING  GEMS     135 

MY  LADY  AND  THE  CRYSTAL  GLOBE..  136 

MY  LADY  WITH  THE  DROOPING  ROSE.  137 

MY  LADY  GOES  TO  CHURCH    138 

MY  LADY  IN  THE  FIRE  LIGHT   139 

MY  LADY  SLEEPS     140 

MY  LADY  IS  MY  DREAM   GIRL    141 

MY  WISTARIA  GIRL  142 

FAREWELL    144 

TWO   LETTERS: 

FIRST  LETTER    145 

SECOND  LETTER  146 

THE  SPIRE  OF  SHAWMUT  CHURCH 149 

THE  SKY  IS  AWAKE  150 

SANDY  ISLE   151 

THE  PASSENGER  COACH  OF  LIFE    152 

LINES  TO  A  GROTESQUE  INKSTAND 154 

THE  COUNTRY  GRAVEYARD   1  ."> 

THE  SEEDLING    THOUGHT    157 

THE  MEASURE  OF  LIFE    159 

AU  REVOIR,  MISS  JO   160 

THE  CLICK  OF  THE  WIELDED  PICK 161 

LINES     INSCRIBED     TO     MR.     FORBKS- 

ROBERTSON   1(52 

I.     THE  WANDERER : KM 

II.     WILFUL  WOMEN   l(>:5 

III.  REFLECTED  BRIGHTNESS 1<H 

IV.  PLEASANT  THOUGHTS 165 

V.     MIDDLE  AGE K55 

VI.     HUMOR    !<><> 

VII.     .JOYS  OF  L1FK   167 

VIII.     THE  TRUEST  L()\  I.  l<>7 


18 


PAGE 

IX.     THE  GUIDING  HAND   168 

X.     THE   PERFECT   LOVE    169 

XI.     THE    MEETING   PLACE   OF 

FRIENDS 169 

XII.     OLDEN  THOUGHTS    170 

XIII.     LOVE  GOES  ALL  THE  WAY 171 

XIV.     HOPE 171 

XV.     THE   MISSION  OF  ART   172 

XVI.     THE  GREAT  PRIVILEGE   173 

XVII.     REGENERATING  THOUGHT 173 

XVIII.     ALTRUISM    171 

XIX.     THE  LONELY  JEW 175 

XX.     LOVE'S  OFFERING   175 

XXI.     THE  BETTER  SELF   176 

XXII.     I  KNOW  YOUR  VOICE   177 

XXIII.  THE   FEAR  OF  BEING  GREAT 177 

XXIV.  THE  WORLD'S   NEED    178 

XXV.     GIVING 179 

XXVI.     TRANSIENT  BEAUTY    179 

XXVII.     SUBSERVIENCY 180 

XXVIII.     LOVE    AND    THE    FEAR    OF 

POVERTY    181 

XXIX.     A  PROMISE    181 

XXX.     A  GLADSOME  GIFT    182 

XXXI.     LEAVE-TAKING    183 

TOO  PROUD  TO  PRAY   184 

SONNET:    To  Firginia   185 

I   NEVER  KNEW' 186 

HIS  HEART  WAS  YOUNG   .187 

THE  GENTLE    LIFE    188 

THE   KINDEST    MAN     189 

WAR-INSPIRED    POEMS: 

THE  GLORY  AND  SHAME  OF  GOD   191 

THE  HYPOCRITE     192 

LOOK  TO  THE  END   193 

THE  YELLOW  CLOUD    193 

THE   RETINUES    195 

AN   HANDFUL  OF  MEAI 197 

THE  ACCUSING    HANDS                                 .  201 


CRADLED     MOONS  19 

PAGE 

THE  HALLOWED  STAR  OF  GOLD   203 

THE  SERVICE   FLAG    205 

TWO    LESSONS 206 

NO   MAN'S   LAND    . 208 

THERE   IS   BUT  ONE    209 

AN  APOSTROPHE  TO  FRANCE    211 

THE  SUPREME    GIFTS 214 

THE  MASTER  GARDENER 217 

THE  SYMBOL  LOVE  CHOSE    218 

OUR  FLAG   219 

MY   COUNTRY    220 

THE  SUNSET   FLAG    220 

TRUE  PATRIOTISM   221 

BUILD  ME  A  LODGE 222 

THE  UNFOLDING    WILL    223 

THE  BRAVEST    MAN     224 

WHAT  IS  A  FRIEND?   225 

A   PROVEN    FRIEND    225 

REALIZATION    226 

THE  JEWELED  TREES   227 

THE   HOPES  OF   SPRING    228 

O  NOBLE  DEAD   (MEMORIAL  DAY) 229 

HALLOWE'EN  IS  HERE 230 

AM   I  THANKFUL?    231 

THE   HALLOWED  HOUR   232 

THE  SPIRIT  GIVEJH  LIFE 233 

THE   HOLLY   THORNS    23 1- 

BELLS  O'  NEWr  YEAR   236 

A  NEW  YEAR'S  THOUGHT  237 

TH  K  UNKNOWN   TREK 237 

THE  MAN  WITH  THE  FIXED  IDEA 238 

THE  SPIRIT   OF   GOD    23!) 

THE  WONDKH   SPRAY    23!) 

CUB  LOVE   240 

THE  DAISY  TOLD  A  LIE   213 

WHEN  MARY   MAKES  THE  BREAD 244 

PREVARICATING    MARY    2 1/> 

ADVICE  TO   POKTS    2  Hi 

TOLSTOI'S      REPLY      TO      THK      RUSSIAN 

CHURCH  248 


20  CRADLED     MOONS 

PAGE 

OUR  HOME  IN  THE  WOODS   249 

THE   CONFESSION 250 

DEAR  LITTLE   SPRITE    250 

THE  LOVE  LETTER    251 

MATRIMONY     252 

CHARLES   DICKENS    253 

INDIVIDUALISM ,    254 

SUCCESS .    255 

THE  LAST  CRUISE  OF  THE  WABASH 256 

TO  THE  MARCH  WINDS   258 

CAN    ANY    GOOD    THING    COME    OUT    OF 

NAZARETH  ?    259 

DEO  GRATIAS    261 

HE  KISSED  THE  LIPS  OF  AMBITION 262 

CHERRY   TIME    263 

THE  GREAT   MUSICIAN    265 

NO  MAN  CAN  ESCAPE   266 

THE   THINNING  RANKS   267 

THE   TIME  TO  BE  CROSS 268 

THE  KEEPER  OF  THE  SPRINGS    269 

MY    HEAVEN    270 

TO  AN  AUTOGRAPH  FIEND    272 

MY  GARDEN  OF  BLIGHTED  HOPES 273 

THE  POET'S  ART 274 

THE  SETTLEMENT  OF  WOLLASTON    27 3 

THE  PEOPLE  I  MEET  ON  THE  TRAIN 294 

ST.  LUKE  XXIV * 295 

A  DROP  OF  INK  .    300 


CRADLED   MOONS 


CRADLED     MOONS  23 


FOR   WHOM    SHALL    I    WRITE? 

For  whom  shall  I  write,  and  what  purpose  in  sight? 

Do  the  critics  give  heed  when  invited  to  read 
The  thoughts  I  indite  in  my  study  at  night? 

Oh,  no ;    they  impede  every  chance  to  succeed 
And  strangle  my  might  hy  praises  so  slight 

I  fain  would  recede  with  my  uttermost  speed 
Back,  back  from  the  land  of  the  poet's  delight. 

For  whom,  then,  for  whom  shall  I  pierce  the  dark  gloom 
Of  the  poet's  own  soul,  or  vent  thoughts  that  control 

The   spirits  that  loom  in  his  intellect's  tomb? 
Shall   I   stoop  to  cajole  the  plebian  droll, 

Or  shall  I   presume  to  the  day  of  my  doom 

To  strive  for  a  goal  which  is  part  of  the  whole? 

Oh,  no;  for  sucli  thoughts  my  soul  has  no  room. 

I  shall  write  for  the  prize  in  the  gift  of  the  wise, 
I  shall  strive  for  renown  and  in  hope  of  a  crown, 

My  work  shall  comprise  all  the  best  I  devise, 

What   though    critic    or    clown    shall    attempt   to   tear 
down 

Or  damn  and  despise  under  faint  praise's  guise, 
And  snicker  or  frown  when  they  meet  me  in  town, 

I  shall  write  for  the  souls  who  with  trutli  sympathise. 


24  CRADLED     MOONS 


TO    AN    ABSENT    MUSE 

Oh,  come,  fruitful  spirit,  long  known  as  the  Muse, 

I   fain  would  embrace  thee,  thou  hidden  recluse, 

I've  chased  o'er  the  hills  and  dales  of  my  mind, 

But  never  a  trace  of  thy  presence  I  find. 

In  the  depths  of  my  soul  I've  called  loud  and  long 

To  bid  thee  return  and  give  life  to  my  song; 

But  now  thou  art  silent,  undutiful  elf, 

And  I  am  alone  with  my  thoughts  and  myself. 

Hitherto  thou  hast  helped  me  when  love's  dream  I  wrote, 

Thou  hast  lent  me  the  fever  its  passions  denote, 

But  tonight  all  its  fire  and  deep,  ruddy  glow 

Seems  to  me  and  my  reason  a  mere  puppet  show. 

When  I  sang  of  the  river  and  old  rustic  mill, 

Thou  hadst  tuned  up  my  lay  with  a  rhythmical  thrill ; 

I    could   see   the   old   mill-wheel   and   the   swift-rushing 

stream, 
But  now,  thou  old  truant,  the  mill  runs  by  steam. 

I  would  fain  dip  my  goose-quill  in  ink  steeped  in  gall, 
Which  would  burn  as  it  flowed  as  a  caustic  on  all 
Who  deserve  the  rebukes  which  a  poet  can  fling, 
But  the  ink  which  I  use  is  devoid  of  its  sting. 
I  would  summon  the  past  with  its  ghosts  to  appear 
For  to  tell  me  of  things  which  no  mortal  should  hear ; 
But  just  as  I  try  these  weird  ghosts  to  control, 
My  good  neighbor  next  door  begins  shovelling  coal. 

I  would  write  of  the  Spring  and  its  pleasures  again, 
Of  its  beautiful  flowers  and  its  soft,  gentle  rain, 
But  my  window  looks  out  on  the  night  damp  and  cold, 
With  old  Boreas  shrieking  like  a  rigorous  scold. 


CRADLED     MOONS  25 

In  the  past  I  have  drawn  on  full  man}'  a  time 

The  home  and  the  mother  to  make  up  a  rhyme, 

But  tonight  in  my  study  come  sounds  through  the  door 

Which  disturb  me  a  bit, — 'tis  the  mater's  low  snore. 

I  have  studied  the  classics  my  soul  to  surcharge 
With  beautiful  thoughts  which  I  fain  would  enlarge, 
But  the  cat's  out  of  doors,  and  the  fire,  I  know, 
Needs  to  have  some  more  coal,  or  out  it  will  go. 
Maybe,  gentle  Muse,  when  my  labors  are  done 
You  will  light  up  my  soul  like  a  radiant  sun, 
But  too  late  you  will  be,  for  soon  I  will  shed 
The  mantle  of  poesy,  and  hie  me  to  bed. 


THE    FERN 

I  saw  a  fern  in  creviced  stone, 

Its   dainty   green   pulsed  with   the   wind, 
It  must  have  grown  for  me  alone, 

Since  it  brought  God  into  my  mind; 
I  saw  its  shallow  earth  confine. 

Its  brothers  in  their  leaf-loam  glen 
Were  lost  amidst  the  grass  and  vines, 

But  it  brought  joy  to  eyes  of  men. 

How  like  unto  myself,  I  thought; 

The  seed  I've  sown  on  stony  ground 
Has  taken  root,  and  grown,  and  brought 

Rich  glory  to  its  narrow  bound, 
And  walls  I  thought  that  compassed  me 

Have  been  but  setting  for  my  soul, 
Have  raised  me  high  and  made  me  free. 

I  am  that  fern  in  (iod's  control. 


26  CRADLED     MOOXS 


MY    MOTHER 

The  twilight  falls  on  Mother's  life, 
The  golden  sunset  gleams 

But  faintly  now; 

The  gathering  shadows,  too,  are  rife 
With  fears ;  the  sun's  last  beams 

Grow  dim;   somehow 
They  trouble  not — my  Mother. 

'Tis  I  who  weep  at  close  of  day, 
For,  as  the  dark  comes  down, 

Mine  are  the  fears, 

I  fain  would  fend  her  night  away, 

I'd  hide  the  proffered  crown, 

Though  Heaven  nears, 
Xo  anxious  thought — lias  Mother. 

Her  graying  locks  were  once  so  dark, 
With  ringlets  prodigal, 

I  was  a  child; 

Her  voice, — the  linnet  and  the  lark 
Sang  in  her  younger  call 

And  me  beguiled, 
I've  not  forgot, — O  Mother. 

Dear    God, — hold   back   those   twilight   shades, 
Heaven's   shining  land  is  blessed 

Witli  angels  fair; 

If   Night  descends,  my  earth-light  fades, 
No  comfort  lies  in  heart  distressed; 

If  she  were  there 
I'd  be  distraught, — for  Mother. 


CRADLED  MOONS      27 


THE  PATH  THAT  BRINGS  ME  HOME 

When  the  sun  lias  kissed  the  tree-tops, 

When  their  shadows  interlace 
In  a  dance  of  seeming  concert 

Just  outside  my  sylvan  place, 
When  the  ruddy  sky  has  softened 

Into  neutral  tints  of  gray, 
Then  I  leave  my  humble  cottage 

For  the  world  I  face  each  day. 

As  I  tread  the  crooked  footpath 

That  convenience  fashioned  out, 
My  sweet   better   selves    (the  children) 

Follow  close  with  laugh  and  shout, 
While  the  mother,  like  an  angel, 

Hovers  near  with  love-lit  eyes, 
Till  the  highway   (cruel  jailer) 

Shackles  me  with  Duty's  ties. 

As  the  hours  mark  the  dial 

Of  the  clock  within  my  gaze, 
All  despite  the  thousand  worries 

Crowding  through  the  anxious  days, 
I  can  see  that  footpath  leading 

To  the  spot  my  heart  calls  home, 
And  I  would  not  change  its  boundings 

For  the  grandest  court  in  Rome  ! 

When  the  evening  shadows  gather, 

And  the  minutes,  wearisome, 
Seem  to  move  so  slow  and  listless, 

Then  the  footpath  whispers  "Come." 
And  once  more  upon  the  highway 

I  retrace  the  steps  of  morn 
With  life's  burdens  still  upon  the 

Shoulders  that  have  overborne. 


28 


Till  I  reach  that  winding  footpath 

Ages  seem  wrapped  up  in  me, 
But  a  glimpse  of  smiling  faces 

Waiting  patient  'neath  a  tree 
That  denotes  my  journey's  ending 

Breaks  a  chord  within  my  soul, 
And  the  millioned  worlds  of  trouble 

From  my  burdened  shoulders  roll. 

Oh,  the  splendor  of  the  sunset, 

Never  was  such  golden  glow, 
In  each  welcome  kiss  of  childhood 

Is  forgot  life's  fancied  woe, 
Whilst  my  soul  cries  out  within  me, 

Life  is  Heaven  typified^ 
And  the  path  seems  paved  with  jasper 

Tread  \>y  angels  glorified. 

There  stands  goddess  of  my  heaven 

With  the  same  love-light,  I  wis, 
In  her  eyes  I  saw  at  morning, 

Wafting  me  an  evening  kiss, 
And  the  children's  noisy  prattle 

Of  the  day's  recounted  deeds 
Is  of  far  more  moment  to  me 

Than  the  fact  that  Europe  bleeds. 

There,  Ambition  treads  on  roadbeds 

Built  on  greed  and  stained  by  blood, 
Here,  'tis  Love  that  marks  the  pathway 

(Radiant  bloom  and  growing  bud). 
There,  is  mocked  the  God  I  worship, 

Here,  His  Name  is  lisped  and  sung, 
There,  the  world  is  lost  to  reason, 

Here  the  path  has  Wisdom's  tongue. 


CRADLED     MOONS  29 

With  the  Poet's  eyes  I'm  looking 

In  the  future,  and  I  see 
Still  another  path  that's  leading 

To  a  place  prepared  for  me; 
But  until  the  day  it  whispers 

To  me,  "Come,"  and  I  shall  roam, 
I  will  ne'er  forget  that  blessed 

Little  path  that  leads  me  home. 


LILAC    BLOOMS 

Sweet  was  the  kiss  of  the  singing  .breeze, 

And  rich  was  the  lilacs'  scent, 

The  Poet,  a  dreamer,  lay 

Content, 

Content  to  dream, 

Not  of  the  winds  and  the  swaying  trees, 

Nor  of  the  regal  purples,  bent 

By  the  spring-sent  zephyrs  of  the  May; 

Ah !  no, — not  these, 

But 

Dreams  of  a  full,  untrammeled  will, 

Dreams  of  a  body  free  from  earth. 

The  Poet,  the  dreamer,  dreamt, 

Content 

In  the  thoughts  of  a  Universe  to  fill 

With  the  hidden  music  of  a  higher  worth 

Than  that  for  the  earth-born  meant. 

Yet  he  saw  in  the  blooms  with  a  thousand  parts, 

In  the  purple  and  violet  tones,  and  white, 

A  something  beyond  the  ken 

Of  men, 

Of  mortal  men ; 

The  unfolding  blossoms  of  the   hearts 

That  had  braved  a   winter's  snows,  and   night, 

And   rejoiced  with  the   Spring  again; 


30  CRADLED     MOONS 


His  further  dream 

This : 

That  the  countless  flowers  of  the  mortal  soil 

Had  felt  the  kiss  of  the  winds  of  Love, 

With  the  world  at  peace  once  more, 

Yes, 

True  peace ! 

And  the  racial  blooms  through  a  War's  turmoil 

Had  bowed  to  the  Perfect  WTill  above,  . 

To  whispers  that  Hate  foreswore ! 

Like  an  ocean's  breast  were  the  lilac  flowers, 

On  the  side  of  the  hill  he  stood, 

The  Poet,  the  dreamer,  saw 

Entranced 

The  colored  seas, 

And  oh !  how  he  yearned  for  diviner  powers, 

He  would  right  the  world, — if  he  only  could, 

And  rule  by  sublimer  Law ; 

His  God's 

Infinite  Law; 

That  the  trees  and  the  shrubs  and  the  flowers  know, 

That  the  birds  of  the  air  and  the  bees  obey, 

That  the  moon  and  the  sun  and  the  stars  hold  fast; 

Love ! 

God's  Love ; 

The  Law  that  made  the  lilacs  grow. 

That  scented  their  tinted  petals  gay, 

The  Law  that  is  unsurpassed ! 

The  Poet,  a  Dreamer,  still, 

Content, 

Content  to  dream. 


31 

I    SHALL    KNOW    REST 

Rest,  rest; 

Oh.  for  the  golden  rest  to  come, 

Pillow  of  green,  sweet  moss  and  tangled  grass, 

Where    fringed    gentians    wave    with    the    zephyrs    that 

blow, 

Where  the  honey-rich  thyme  lures  the  bees'  drowsy  hum, 
Where  the  birds  of  the  June  sing  God's  peace  as  they 

pass, 

Where  Nature  shall  phantom  all  sorrows  I  know; 
This,  this  is  the  rest  I  seek. 

Rest,  rest ; 

I  once  saw  the  blue  on  a  proud  peacock's  breast, 

And  its  oscellate  tail  iridescent  with  gold, 

(The  sun  lent  a'rainbow  to  add  to  its  charm), 

And  I  thought,  what  a  pillow  for  me  in  my  rest, 

I  would  gather  the  plumes,  oh,  so  ruthless  and  bold, 

I  would  cluster  the  radiant  blue  in  my  arm 

As  down  for  the  rest  I  seek. 

Rest,  rest; 

In  the  infant's  eyes  was  the  wonder  gleam, 

And  I  sensed  in  its  feeble  gripping  hand 

Its  voiceless  alarms  at  the  unknown  things, 

And  I  wondered  if  I,  in  a  new  world,  would  seem 

Cowed  by  the  scenes  I  could  not  understand, 

Or  lost  in  the  wonder  the  Infinite  brings, 

Not  ready  for  rest  I  seek. 

Rest,  rest ; 

Soul-Friend  of  mine,  when  true  rest  shall  be  earned, 

And  I  shall  deserve  the  green-sodded  bed 

With  its  marvelous  sice]),  and  my  wearied  eyes  close. 

When  the  lesson  of  Death  and  its  mission  is  learned, 

Take  the  clay  from  my  soul,  and  give  me  instead 

The  body  that  covers  the  scent  of  the  rose, 

Then,  then  comes  the  rest  I  seek  ! 


32  CRADLED     MOONS 


LOVE'S    MISTS 

Rainbows  shine  when  clouds  have  parted,  but  their  bril 
liant  colors  seem 
Dull  beside  the  dazzling  beauty  of  the  love-mist's  glint 

and  ^leam, 
Mists  that  close  on  faults  of  dear  ones,  mists  that  blind 

prosaic  thought, 
Mists    that    capture    blessed    sunshine    and    reflect    its 

brilliance  caught, 
Mists   that  cast  a   golden   halo   over   shallow,   darksome 

pools, 
Mists  that  close  on  depths  unfathomed,  mists  that  bury 

deep  the  fools, 
Golden  mists  when  kissed  by  sunrise,  silver  mists  when 

twilights  close. 
All  surrounding,  hiding  secrets  which  are  safe  when  but 

one  knows. 

Only  when  love's  mists  have  lifted  is  mankind  exposed 

to  blame. 
Only    when    the    mists    are    broken    is    man's    weakness 

known  as  shame, 
Only    on    life's    burning   deserts,   where    sucli    mists   are 

quite  unknown. 
Do  the  faults,  which  men  are  prone  to,  naked  stand  and 

all  alone. 

Shame  on  those  who  flout  the  presence  of  Love's  rain 
bow-tinted  mist, 
Shame  on  those  who  see  no  beauty  in  the  lives  its  tints 

have  kissed, 
Shame,   thrice   shame   on   those   who   glory   in   the  error 

brought  to  sight 
Which    had    best    been    left    enveloped    in    the    mists    of 

Love's  delight. 


CRADLED     MOONS  33 


THE    HUMAN    LINCOLN 


God  sometimes  sends 

From  out  His  boundless  treasure-house  of  life 
A  God*-like  man; 

And  when  He  gave 
Unto  our  land  the  life  we  honor  now. 
He  had  a  plan. 

The  times  were  ripe; 

Men's  troubled  hearts  cried  out  for  one  to  lead, 
One  staunch  and  true, 

And   then  arose 

This  human  soul  who  fathered  his  great  flock 
As  God  would  do. 

Men  clung  on  him 

As  the  soft,  white  snow  clings  to  the  leafless  trees 
When  Winter  reigns ; 

His  sorrows  weighed 

As   the    frosted   down   weights    deep   each    naked   bough 
Which  bends,  sustains. 

He  knew  men's  hearts, 

And,  knowing  them,  he  had  no  eyes   for  shame, 
But  saw  their  best ; 

His  own  great  soul 

Oft  groaned  in  solitude  for  those  he  knew 
Were  sore  oppressed. 

When    Strife's    sharp    claws 

Had  torn  the  States  as  wild-cats  rend  their  prey, 
He  soothed  each  wound; 

His  was  the  hand 

That  loosed  the  shackles  from  a  subject  race, 
The  blacks  unbound. 


34  CRADLED     MOOXS 

His  spirit  proved 

That  man  is  more  than  simply  moulded  dust ; 
He  mirrored  God; 

And  angels  wept 

With  finite  men  when  he  was  laid  at  rest 
Beneath  the  sod. 


THE    VILLAGE    SCHOOL 

With  the  golden  moonlight  streaming 

Through  my  window  open  wide, 
I  am  all  alone  and  dreaming, 

And  the  past  years  seem  to  glide 
Phantom-like  before  my  vision, 

Each  and  every  one  in  turn, 
Not  a  break  nor  an  omission, 

And  for  them  my  heart  doth  yearn. 

Childhood's   happy   hours   renewing, 

'Neath  the  moon's  soft,  mystic  spell, 
And  my  memory's   reviewing 

Boyhood  days  I  loved  so  well. 
Days  in  which  no  thought  of  sorrow 

Marred  the  joy   which  childhood  knew, 
When  each  glorious  tomorrow 

Opened  a  new  world  to  view. 

I  can  see  a  boy  whose  features 
Much  resemble  those  of  mine, 

Which,  like  other  earth-born  creatures, 
Many  traits  seem  to  combine. 


CRADLED     MOONS  35 

I  can  see  him  as  he  trudges 

To  that  dear  old  village  school ; 
I  can  see  his  skirted  judges 

Place  him  on  a  dunce's  stool. 

As  I  watch  him  mounting  slowly, 

Step  by  step  and  grade  to  grade, 
I   recall  that  great  and  lowly 

Each  the  first  same  steps  have  made. 
And  each  hope  and  aspiration 

Which  I  own,  came  first  to  me 
Through  my  teachers'  inculcation 

And  their  kindly  amity. 

I  can  hear  the  noisy  prattle 

Of  his  schoolmates  when  at  play; 
But  to-day  they're  doing  battle 

With  the  world  as  best  they  may. 
Some  have  gone  to  study  under 

Heavenly  teachers  of  God's  truth, 
And  tonight  I  can't  but  wonder 

If  they  still  retain  their  youth. 

I  remember,  oh !  so  clearly, 

Brig*ht  blue  eyes  and  golden  hair, 
One  boy's  sweetheart,  loved  so  dearly, 

Who  is  now  with  angels  there. 
Winsome  smiles   and  blushes  beaming 

On  a  bashful  boy  of  twelve, 
And  the  tears  fall  while  I'm  dreaming 

Of  the  past  in  which  I  delve. 

I  can  see  a  wreath  of  flowers 

Resting  lightly  on  a  chair 
Close  beside  him,  where  for  hours 

Sat  this  little  maiden  fair. 
I  can  hear  the  subdued  sobbing 

Of  a  boy  who'd  lost  a  friend, 


36  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  tonight  my  heart  is  throbbing 
With  the  memories  that  attend. 

And  I  wonder  when  the  ringing 

School  bell  calls  me  to  that  shore, 
Where  are  white-robed  choirs  singing, 

I  shall  know  her  as  of  yore. 
Will  she  be  the  same  as  childhood 

Memories  reveal  her  now, 
Romping  through  the  field  and  wildwood, 

Purity  stamped  on  her  brow? 

Or,  have  girlhood's  blossoms  parted 

To  reveal  a  woman's  soul,  jj 

Still  endeavoring  as  it  started 

Towards  a  grand  and  lofty  goal? 
Was  the  thread  of  life  here  broken 

Bound  by  God  into  Hope's  strand, 
Which  should  serve  to  us  as  token 

Of  that  better  promised  land? 


~r- 


From  the  schoolroom  window  gazing 

I  can  see  a  grassy  hill, 
Where  the  cattle  now  are  grazing, 

There  the  world  seems  calm  and  still. 
Once  again  I  view  the  river 

Flowing  sluggishly  along, 
Where  the  willow  branches  quiver, 

Where  I  hear  the  robin's  song. 

I  can  see  a  kind  face  beaming 

Full  of  happiness  and  joy, 
And  two  sharp,  bright  eyes  are  gleaming, 

Focused  on  a  naughty  boy. 
They  were  owned  by  dear  "Aunt  Hannah," 

As  we  used  to  call  her  then, 
Whose  sweet,  gentle,  loving  manner 

Will  ne'er  be  forgot  by  men. 


CRADLED     MOONS 

I  remember  quite  distinctly 

How  she  used  to  punish  boys, 
How  she  often  used  to  chide  me 

For  my  whispering  and  noise. 
I  was  always  quite  loquacious 

(Even  now  it's  not  outgrown), 
And  I  think  her  efficacious 

Punishment  I  will  make  known. 

Every  night  as  we  were  leaving 

She  commanded  those  to  stay 
Who  deserved  no  kind  reprieving, 

Those  who'd  whispered  through  the  day, 
While  she  kept  them  busy  learning 

Poetry  of  every  kind, 
Who,  before  their  homeward  turning, 

Verses  five  must  have  in  mind. 

So  I  think  my  love  of  rhyming 

Must  have  been  augmented  quite 
By  the  constant,  measured  timing 

Of  those  poems  every  night. 
Dear  Aunt  Hannah's  now  up  yonder, 

And  I  think  that  I  can  see 
Good  Saint  Peter  sit  and  ponder 

Over  classic   poetry. 

I  can  see  a  figure  stately 

Standing  by  the  schoolroom  door, 
And  I   watch  it  move  sedately 

To  the  platform  on  the  floor. 
'Twas  my  dearly  loved  schoolmaster, 

Who  impressed  me  as  a  child 
With  a  knowledge  that  was  vaster 

Than  old  Homer  e'er  compiled. 

And  tonight  the  moonlight  streaming 
Seems  to  cast  his  silhouette 


38  CRADLED     MOONS 

On  my  mind  as  I  am  dreaming, 
And  his  pose  I'll  ne'er  forget; 

One  hand  pointed  to  the  ceiling. 
With  his  form  erect  and  grand 

As  he  was  to  us  revealing 
Oratory's  master-hand. 

I  can  hear  the  windows  rattle 

From  his  deep  and  lusty  tone, 
As  with  Spartacus  in,  battle 

Making  his  fierce  feelings  known. 
And  the  Storm  King's  mighty  thunder 

Seemed  not  half  as  loud  to  me 
As  that  voice  which  we  sat  under 

Learning  vocal  purity. 

And  whene'er  I  have  occasion 

To  address  my  fellow  men, 
I  remember  his  oration, 

And  old  Spartacus  again. 
And  I  try  to  put  real  fire 

Into  everything  I  say, 
Such  as  he  aimed  to  inspire 

In  his  pupils  every  day. 

The  old  master  still  is  living, 

Very  gray  and  somewhat  bent, 
And  I  know  at  times  he's  giving 

To  this  burning  fire  vent. 
And  with  truth  I  can  assever 

That  the  knowledge  which  he  taught 
Will  inspire  me  forever 

Towards  the  goal  my  soul  has  sought. 

And  the  schoolhouse  still  is  standing 
Just  a  little  from  the  street, 

Where  upon  each  step  and  landing 
One  can  hear  the  children's  feet. 


CRADLED     MOOXS 

Hut  the  charm  for  me  is  broken, 
As  I'm  dreaming  here  alone, 

Since  each  sweet  and  loving  token 
Of  my  past  there  now  has  flown. 

• 

Still;  I  love  that  quaint,  old  building, 

And  the  golden  moonbeams  bright 
Seem  to  flood  its  porches,  gilding 

Every  corner  with  delight. 
And  I'll  ne'er  forget  the  teachings, 

Ne'er  forget  that  dunce's  stool, 
Nor  my  kind,  old  master's  preachings 

In  that  dear  old  village  school. 


Ml"    EYES    ARE    YOUNG 

Soft  spake  I  to  Age  at  his  dusk  of  day, 
"Wouldst  tell  me  thy  secret,  friend? 

Thy  form  is  gaunt  and  thy  locks  are  gray, 
Yet  Youth  withal  doth  seem  to  lend 
Its  spring-time  smile  and  thee  attend, 

Give  me  thy  secret,  pray." 

And  Age  replied:  "Seest  thou  yonder  field 

With  its  silk-weed  pods  now  burst, 
And  the  fine  white  threads  by  the  frosts   revealed, 

Not  yet  by  the  winds  dispersed, 

Nor  yet  by  the  snows   amerced, 
Of  their  cradle-forming  shield? 


40  CRADLED     MOONS 

My  locks  are  like  down  on  the  silk-weed,  hung 
To  pods  on  the  frost-killed  reeds, 

My  limbs  are  like  leaves  to  their  dead  stalks  clung, 
But  my  eyes  are  liked  margined  seeds, 
Not  scattered  as  yet  to  meads,  • 

And  my  eyes  like  them  are  young." 

Methought  as  I  wended  my  way  alone 
And  viewed  ail  the  silk-weeds  strung 

With  their  sloat-eyed  seeds,  and  their  down  not  blown, 
Of  the  golden  words  of  this  age-wise  tongue, 
And  I  vowed  to  keep  my  eyes  still  young 

When  mv  vouth  witli  vears  had  flown. 


THINK    ON    EMPIRES 

Many's  the  man  who's  fitted  to  lead 

Progression's  van  and  empires  build, 
Yet  dribbles  his  time  with  things  that  impede 

And  obstruct  the  things  which  might  be  fulfilled 

If  he  were  but  bold; 

Many's  the  place  which  harbors  the  man 
Who's  fit  to  be  king,  yet  by  reason  of  doubt 
Contented  remains  and  does  what  he  can 

In  some  petty  place  with  peasants  about, 
And  rusts  and  grows  old. 

Many's  the  man  whose  parish  has  claimed 

All  of  his  might  while  the  world  waits  and  waits 

For  someone  like  him  who  can  be  inflamed 

With  zeal  for  its  needs  and  whose  strength  animates 
The  dull,  sluggish  mass ; 


41 


Many's  the  place,  like  Bethlehem  small, 

Least  in  world-fame,  yet  is  destined  to  bring 

From  out  of  its  midst  a  Ruler  of  all, 

Crowned  and  acclaimed  a  Saviour  and  King, 
Too  great  for  one  class. 

Many's  the  man  and  many's  the  place 

That  needs  to  be  roused  to  the  things  they  can  be  ; 
Many's  the  land  and  many's  the  race 

That  offers  a  field  for  activity 
When  once  they  awake  ; 
If  men  Will  but  think  on  empires  grand 

Instead  of  on  parishes  petty  and  small, 
Their  minds  will  mature  and  their  souls  will  expand, 

And  they  will  be  ready  to  answer  the  call 
The  Future  shall  make  ! 


YOU    SIMPLY    CAN'T 

You  can't  be  sick  of  living  when  you're  working  with 
your  might, 

You  can't  be  sad  and  lonesome  when  your  heart  with  love 
is  light, 

You  can't  fail  to  be  thankful  when  you  look  around  and 
see 

All  the  good  things  which  surround  you  and  God's  liber 
ality  ; 

You  simply  can't. 

You  can't  be  mean  and  selfish  when  you  share  the  things 

you  own, 
You  can't  be  cold  and  heartless  when  the  warmth  of  love 

you've  shown, 
You  can't  be  introspective  when  your  eyes  once  view  the 

scene 
Of  a  world  of  broken  spirits  and  you  realize  what  they 

mean; 

You  simply  can't. 


4-2  CRADLED     MOONS 

You  can't  get  out  of  patience  when  you  sympathize  with 

pain, 
You  can't  be  cross  and  peevish  when  you  know  your  loss 

is  gain, 

You  can't  be  slow  or  idle  when  your  mind's  responsive  to 
The  great,  glad  world  about  you  and  the  things  which 

YOU  might  do; 

You  simply  can't. 

You  can't  rule  men  witli  hatred  when  the  power  of  love 

is  proved, 
You  can't  be  hard  or  callous  when  you've  let  yourself  be 

moved, 

You  can't  refuse  a  beggar  when  beneath  his  rags  you  see 
A  brother  man  and  heir  to  man's  immortality ; 
You  simply  can't. 

You  can't  be  rude  to  children  when  you've  felt  a  sweet 

child's  kiss, 
You  can't  reprove  the  lonely  when  companionship  you 

miss, 
You  can't  be   deaf  to  sorrow   when  you've   drained   its 

bitter  cup 
To  the  dregs  and  know  the  feeling  of  a  hope  that  buoys 

you  up ; 

You  simply  can't. 

You  can't  be  irreligious  when  you  ask  and  you  receive, 
You  can't  be  dumb  and  silent  when  you  trust  and  you 

believe, 
You   can't   disguise   God's    presence   when   your   soul   is 

one  with  Him, 
Be   you   midst  the   scenes   of   plenty   or   where   poverty 

stalks  grim ; 

You  simply  can't. 


43 

BEAUTIFUL    NIGHT 

Oil  beautiful  night,  oh,  beautiful  night, 
How  weak  are  mere  words  to  express 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  my  soul  by  the  sight 
Of  those  charms  which  the  earth  dotli  possess. 

The  moon's  bright  reflection  in  the  rippleless  lake, 

The  trees,  sombre  shadows  of  dun, 
The  dark  purple  hills  in  the  distance  awake 

The  thought  which  in  daytime  I   shun. 

The  myriad  stars  seem  like  holes  in  the  sky 
Where  the  glory  of  Heaven  sifts  through, 

And  that  fantastic  cloud  I  view  scurrying  by 
Takes  the  shape  of  a  swift  kangaroo. 

The  soft,  gentle  zephyrs  which  rustle  the  trees 
Seem  to  sing  to  my  soul  a  sweet  tune, 

And  my  sub-conscious  self  is  again  at  the  knees 
Of  my  mother,  and  lists  to  her  croon. 

I  recall  that  sweet  song  which  thrilled  with  delight 

As  she  sang  to  a  youngster  of  four, 
"Oh,  Mother,  how  pretty  the  moon  is  tonight, 

It  was  never  so  pretty  before." 

I  remember  those  eyes  gazing  up  at  the  moon, 
'Tis  the  same  moon  that  now  greets  my  sight, 

And  I  choke  back  the  tears  as  I  hark  to  the  tune 
Of  the  whispering  breezes  of  night. 

And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  are  now  stalking  abroad, 

The  mists  of  the  valley  take  shape, 
They  wander  the  roads  which  in  past  years  I've  trod, 

They   now   grip  me,  I  cannot  escape. 


44  CRADLED     MOONS 

Oil,  beautiful,  beautiful,  beautiful  night, 
How  weak  are  mere  words  to  express 

The  thoughts  that  arise  in  my  soul  by  the  sight 
Of  those  charms  which  the  earth  doth  possess. 


THE    MIDNIGHT    HOUR 

Give  me  the  quiet  midnight  hour 

To  pen  my  solemn  thought, 
'Tis  then  Creation's  spirits  tower 

And  come  to  me  unsought ; 
Imagination  tops  them  all, 

And  leads  in  by  the  hand 
The  king,  men  Inspiration  call, 

Who  reigns  in  Poets'  land. 

The  meanest  herb  in  Nature's  realm 

At  that  time  seems  to  be 
Endowed  with  beauties  which  o'erwhelm 

And  puzzle  even  me. 
The  drivel  which  some  rustic  spoke 

While  old  King  Sol  held  sway, 
Remembered  now,  serves  to  invoke 

Some  thoughts  which  went  astray. 

The  moon,  just  peeping  o'er  the  cloud, 

I  welcome  as  a  friend, 
Save  him  alone,  there's  none  allowed 

Their  light  with  mine  to  blend; 
I  want  no  one  to  come  between 

The  silence  and  my  soul, 
My  Better  Self's  at  midnight  seen 

And  holds  me  in  control. 


CRADLED     MOONS  4.5 

The  grating  sounds  of  busy  life 

Are  stilled,  thank  God !  at  last, 
And  Babel's  tongues  and  Egypt's  strife 

Seem  ages  in  the  past. 
I  need  no  books  to  create  themes, 

I  need  no  mentor's  word, 
My  conscience  rules,  and  genius  gleams, 

And  God's  own  voice  is  heard. 


'THE  TIME  OF  THE  SINGING  BIRD  IS  COME' 

Be  still,  my  soul,  in  silence  hark 
To  raptured  songs  of  pure  delight 
From  spring-birds  on  their  winged  flight, 
The  mellow  flute  of  meadow-lark 
With   sequent   notes   rings   clear  and   light, 
And  breaks  the  spell  of  Winter's  night; 
Oh,  join  in  song,  my  soul! 

The  red-wings  on  the  brown  marsh  gleam, 
Their  intermingled  pipes  are  heard 
In  golden  concert  registered; 
The  pho?be  haunts  the  woodland  stream, 
On  listening  brooks  its   song's   conferred 
And  sweet  the  cadence  of  its  word; 
Oh,  join  in  song,  my  soul! 

The  grass-finch  in  the  twilight  sings 

The  sombre  song  of  closing  day. 

He  sings  the  passing  sun  to  stay : 

The  white-throat  sparrow's  caroling 
Reflect  the  joy  of  runaway 
From  unloved  climes,  a  biid's  hooray; 
Oh,  join  in  song,  my  soul! 


46  CRADLED     MOONS 

The  robins  and  the  blue-birds  call, 
The  veery  cheeps  rich  melody, 
And  echoes  mock  the  chickadee; 
The  God  of  Spring  hath  sent  them  all, 
And  in  their  tuneful  harmony 
My  future  Spring  sings  out  to  me; 
Oh,  join  in  song,  my  soul! 


THE   JUDAS-WINDS   ON    CODMAN    HILL 

Good  friend,  know  you  of  Codman  Hill, 
In  Dorchester,  old  Dorchester? 

'Twas  there 

The  mild  November  day  I  spent 
Till  twilight  shadows  grew  and  lent 
To  sappling  trees  a  measurement 

That  years  might  not  fulfil. 
The  Judas-Winds  that  kiss, — betray, 
And  steal  the  leaves  in  Fall's  array, 
WTere  mellowed  by  the  sun  this  day, 

And  bore  no  season's  chill. 

Behold ! 

The  sun,  a  ball  of  "crimson  gold, 
Another  day  as  fair  foretold, 
But,  oh !  my  soul  was  not  consoled, 

It  fain  would  stay  the  light; 
It  sensed  in  even's  murk  and  gloom 
The  shadowed  death  of  primehood's  bloom, 
It  caught  the  odors  of  the  tomb 

Borne  on  the  breeze  of  night. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  47 

A  boy 

In  yester-years,  I've  not  forgot 
I  goaded  kine  on  yonder  lot 
Close  by,  the  brook's  moss  banks  I've  sought 

For  tender  flowers  of  spring. 
The  southern  slope,  near  where  I  stood, 
We  used  to  know  as   Morton's  Wood, 
A  paradise-like  neighborhood 

To  boys  with  soul  a-wing. 

And  oh! 

I  well  remember  gypsy  bands 
That  camped  upon  the   sloping  lands, 
They  read  one's  future  in  the  hands, 

And  traded  basket  ware ; 
The  mill-folk  in  the  village  near 
Would  double  lock  their  doors  in  fear 
Lest  some  nomadic  hag  appear 

And  steal  their  treasures  rare. 


This  night 

The  Judas-Winds  on  Codman  Hill 
That  kissed  my  cheek,  soft  blowing,  still 
Like  Magyar  tribes,  who  stole  at  will, 

They  robbed  me  of  my  j  oy ; 
They  took  the  jewels  of  my  past, 
And  blew  away  to  ages  vast 
The  treasure-stores  that  once  were  massed 

Within  the  heart  of  bov. 


Good  friend, 

I'll  go  no  more  on  Codman  Hill, 
In  Dorchester,  old  Dorchester. 

For  there 

I  saw  the  hopes  of  youthful  years 
Blown  on  the  winds  of  doubts  and  fears, 


48  CRADLED     MOONS 

The  whirling  leaves  that  Autumn  seres 
Were  prayers  of  mine,  now  dead; 
But,  oh !  if  you  will  climb  the  slope 
With  staff  in  hand  and  telescope, 
The  winds  that  made  me  misanthrope 
May  bring  you  joy  instead. 


Has  it  been  your  lot  to  meet 

One  who's  gracious,  kind  and  sweet, 

One  who  greets  you  on  the  street 

With  a  smile? 

Have  you  found  a  friend,  unpressed, 
Giving  all  at  Love's  behest, 
And  who  goes  without  request 

One  more  mile? 

Do  you  give  that  extra  touch, 

Prove  a  favor  not  as  such, 

But  a  pleasure  wished  for,  much, 

And  worth  while? 

Do  you  add  sweet  grace  and  charm, 
Lend  refusals  soothing  balm, 
Go  in  spirit  arm  in  arm 

One  more  mile? 

'Tis  the  little  acts,  my  friend, 
Simple  arts  which  oft-times  blend 
Happiness  with  deeds,  and  lend 

Grace  and  style; 

Wealth  and  fame  are  poor  beside 
Such  a  charm,  and  vain  is  pride, 
Love  will  ever  prompt  and  guide 

One  more  mile. 


CRADLED     MOONS  49 

WHO    IS    MY    NEIGHBOR? 

Who  is  my  neighbor  ?      He  of  whom  'tis  said 
That  I  must  love  e'en  as  my  very  self, 
And  act  unto  as  Good  Samaritan 
In  time  of  need?      Does  this  imply  that  he 
Whose  latticed  porch  is  shadowed  by  the  sun 
Upon  my  walk  has  the  first  claim  on  me 
For  love  and  help  ?     Or  is  it  he  who  comes 
Each  day  with  me  in  contact  on  the  mart 
Within  the  town  ?      Oh,   foolish  soul  to  ask ! 
My  neighbor  is  the  world  and  all  therein; 
The  lowly,  poor,  the  struggling,  troubled  heart, 
The  sick,  the  lame,  and  they  whom  sorrow  rules 
Are  neighbors  all  to  me — and  I  should  strive 
To  prove  my  love  to  them  in  everything. 


DISAPPOINTMENT 

I  said  I  had  a  friend, 

A  worthy  friend ; 
I  gauged  him  by  his  daily  word, 
I  plumed  myself  on  strength  inferred 
As  lent  by  him ;  somehow  he  heard 
My  need  was  great.      Did  aught  he  ever  lend? 

Not  he; 
I  lost  my  friend ! 

I  said  I  had  a  friend, 

A  kindly  friend; 
I  proved  him  seemingly  to  ring 
Like  purest  gold,  and  friendship's  seasoning 
Seemed  evidenced.      I  bade  him  hear  me  sing 
My  burdened  song.      Think  you  he  did  attend? 

Not  he; 
I  lost  mv  friend ! 


50  CRADLED     MOOXS 

I  said  I  had  no  friend, 

No  sincere  friend ; 

I  knew  not  friendship's  sweetest  bliss 
Was  near  to  me, — my  sweetheart's  kiss 
Redeemed  false  loves.      Not  now  I  miss 
My   erstwhile    friends.      Think   you   she   could   pretend? 

Not  she; 
I  have  a  friend ! 


THE    LAND    OF    MEMORY 

Where  is  the  Land  of  Memory, 

The  land  of  long  ago? 
Is  it  some  isle  on  Love's  deep  sea 

Where  everlastings  grow? 
Are  shining  stars  with  twinkling  light 

The  peep-holes  in  its  floor? 
Or  was  the  sunset  of  last  night 

Its  brilliant,  golden  door? 

There  is  no  death  in  Memory, 

But  all  is  life  and  joy, 
And  innocence  and  purity 

Our  baser  thoughts  destroy ; 
We  see  the  soul  and  not  the  clay, 

The  God,  and  not  the  man, 
And  what  seemed  dross  but  yesterday 

Proves  gold  within  the  pan. 

And  age  and  youth  in  Memory 

Are  welded  into  one, 
The  dim  shades  of  futurity 

Reflect  its  setting  sun. 


CRADLED     MOONS  51 

No  storm-king  rules  with  tyrant  hand, 

No  lightnings  rift  its  sky, 
Its  outskirts  border  Heaven's  land, 

And  God  is  ever  nigh. 

I  love  the  Land  of  Memory, 

The  bright  thoughts  of  the  past 
Take  shape  tonight  and  come  to  me 

From  out  the  Unknown,  vast ; 
The  dear  ones  that  have  gone  before 

Are  wakened  from  their  sleep  ; 
Whene'er  I  knock  on  Memory's  door 

They  bid  me  not  to  weep. 

I've  found  the  Land  of  Memory, 

The  fairest  land  of  all. 
The  bluebirds  flit  from  tree  to  tree, 

I  hear  the  linnet's  call ; 
And  lilies  bloom  so  pure  and  white, 

Sweet  fragrance  they  impart. 
Oh,  Memory's  Land  is  my  delight, 

I've  found  it  in  mv  heart. 


THE   SERMON   OF   THE   LILIES 

In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  we  can  see  the  love  of  God. 
They,  without  a  conscious  effort,  rise  supreme  above  the 
sod,  clothed  in  purest  tints  of  glory,  fed  by  springs  sent 
from  above,  each  a  Message  of  Creation,  each  an  em 
blem  of  His  love. 

O  ye  souls  that  doubt  and  falter,  here  is  Truth 
sublime,  that  lives  in  the  lilies  kissed  by  Heaven,  prov 
ing  Love  divine  He  gives ;  are  ye  not  of  much  more 
moment  than  the  lilies  of  the  field?  Yea,  believe,  and 
Faith  returneth  more  than  fondest  hopes  can  yield. 


52  CRADLED     MOONS 

THE    DOCTOR 

The  Doctor !      How  that  name  doth  call  to  mind 

A  train  of  thoughts,  some  painful,  some  sublime, 

And  visions  rise  of  grim  Death  put  to  rout 

By  his  great  skill.      No  hero  of  the  past 

Deserves  to  be  acclaimed,  or  wear  a  crown 

More  than  doth  he.      For  him  no  sacrifice 

Has  been  too  great ;  no  deed  too  small  to  claim 

His  noblest  thought.      His  duty  stands  supreme. 

On  his  broad  shoulders  there  is  placed  a  load 

So  great,  which,  were  we  called  to  share,  we'd  cry 

Aloud  in  agony  and  pain, — and  yet 

No  sign  or  word  doth  emanate  from  him, 

He  doth  not  show  by  outward  countenance 

The  burdens  of  humanity  he  bears. 

I  watch  him  as  he  sits  beside  the  bed 

Of  a  sick  child.      The  mother  with  her  hands  in  prayer 

In  dumb  appeal  aloft  entreats  God's  help. 

The  father  with  a  soul  too  full  of  grief 

To  shed  a  tear  is  close  beside  her  there. 

And  he  alone  of  all  reflects  a  calm 

Like  unto  that  which  stills  the  ocean's  deeps 

Ere  they  are  lashed  by  furies  of  the  storm. 

I  see  the  yellow  lamp-light  gleam  and  spread 

Its  brilliant  rays  which  seem  to  tinge  with  gold 

Each  little  curl  that  nestles  'round  the  head 

Of  the  sick  babe.      No  smile  plays  o'er  those  lips 

Made  redder  by  the  fever's  burning  course. 

E'en  hope  seems  dead; — and  yet,  to  him,  there's  hope. 

Again  my  memory  doth  reveal  a  scene, 

A  happy,  thankful  scene  of  joy  which  shows 

A  doctor's  hope  made  real,  an  answered  prayer; 

Two  grateful  hearts  whose  benisons  descend 

Upon  his  head.      I  see  a  child  who  bursts 

Into  the  picture  with  its  arms  outstretched, 


CRADLED     MOONS  53 

With  smiles  upon  those  lips  where  fever  raged. 

I  see  two  arms  around  the  doctor's  neck 

In  child-like  love;  and  all  is  peace  and  joy. 

I  read  a  doctor's  heart  as  he  departs, 

Anxiety  and  care  have  furrowed  deep. 

That  heart  has  bled  and  wept  in  solitude, 

And  no  one  knew.     And  now  its  prayers  ascend 

In  thanks  to  God  who  stayed  Death's  fearful  hand. 

I  go  with  him  upon  his  daily  round 

To  other  homes  where  sickness  and  despair 

Are  crouching  low,  like  monsters  of  the  wood 

Who  snatch  life's  travellers  as  they  tread  the  road. 

And  in  them  all  he's  treated  just  as  if 

He  bore  within  his  palm  the  spark  of  life, 

And  could  bestow  on  all  who  asked  of  him 

The  boon  of  health  and  happiness  and  peace. 

I  watch  him  in  the  fierce  storm's  height  go  forth 

With  no  thought  of  himself  or  rest's  desire, 

And  answer  duty's  call  with  a  sweet  smile 

Which  cheered  and  brightened  every  soul  in  sight, 

And  never  do  I  hear  a  word  that  breathes 

A  discontented  svllable  aloud. 


O  Doctor,  there's  a  regal  crown  for  you, 

And  when  the  Great  Physician  calls  you  home 

You'll  find  a  robe  of  iridescent  cloth 

Is  weaved  for  you  from  out  the  tears  of  love 

Which  have  been  shed  by  those  you've  blest  on  earth, 

You'll  find  a  place  that  Christ  Himself  has  made 

And  lias  reserved  for  you.      He  went  about 

As  you  do  now,  and  healed  the  sick  and  lame, 

And  He  has  granted  you  the  skill  and  might 

To  emulate  Him  in  your  work  of  love. 

And  every  morn  our  prayers  on  high  shall  rise 

To  bless  you  as  you  go  upon  your  way. 

And  never  will  you  lack  an  earthly  friend 

While  we  are  living  in  this  finite  world. 


.54  CRADLED     MOONS 


JUST    A    SIMPLE    LITTLE    FLOWER 

Just  a  simple  little  flower 

Wet  with  morning  dew  and  shower, 

Blest  with  potent,  mystic  power 

To  dispel 

Gloom  and  sorrow  from  the  faces 
Of  the  poor  in  cheerless  places, 
And  the  sweetest  heart  it  graces 

Oh,  so  well. 

Just  a  simple  little  flower 

Never  missed  from  Nature's  bower, 

Yet  it  cheered  a  darkened  hour 

And  beguiled 
For  a  day  a  fever-ridden, 
Helpless  soul  in  slum-life  hidden, 
Where  sweet  gardens   are   forbidden 

To  a  child. 


Just  a  simple  little  flower 

Rifts  with  sunshine  clouds  that  lower, 

And  disperses  glooms  which  tower 

Mountains  high, 

Even  kings  can  ne'er  be  knowing 
Greater  joys  that  its  bestowing 
To  the  child  of  sorrow  showing 

Bright  blue  sky. 


CRADLED     MOONS  55 


WHIRLWINDS 

The  deepest  dregs  of  direst  woe 
Are  drained  in  time  by  those  who  sow 
The  whirlwinds. 

You  cannot  glean   from  woman's  tears 
Repentance  for  the  misspent  years 
In  whirlwinds. 

The  idler's  sport,  the  gambler's  dice, 
The  moments  spent  in  foolish  vice, 
Are  whirlwinds. 

Neglected  hearts,   forgotten  pride, 
And  perverse  thoughts  are  things  that  ride 
On  whirlwinds. 

And  Love's  bold  wings  are  much  too  weak 
To  soar  on  winds  of  which  we  speak, 
These  whirlwinds. 

Its  pinions  spread  are  blown  away 
And  lost  forever  and  a  day 
By  whirlwinds. 

God  help  the  fool  that  thinks  that  he 
Can  sow  and  reap  successfully 
All  whirlwinds. 


56  CRADLED     MOONS 

SWEET  ABBIE  AT  THE   SPRING 

I  have  read  of  sculptured  beauties 

Carved  by  Phidias  of  old, 
With  hands  and  feet  of  ivory, 

With  draperies  of  gold; 
But  to  me  he  never  equaled 

The  grace  which  seems  to  cling 
To  the  picture  of  sweet  Abbie 

A-drinking  at  the  spring. 

I  have  read  the  odes  of  Horace 

And  have  marvelled  at  his  art, 
And  the  sweet  love-songs  of  Sappho 

Have   found  echoes  in  my  heart, 
But  the  music  of  these  poets 

And  the  love  of  which  they  sing 
Seem  but  dross  compared  with  Abbie 

A-drinking  at  the  spring. 

Her  simple  gown  of  muslin 

More  regal  was  to  me 
That  ermine  robes  of  princes 

In  courts  across  the  sea. 
No  artist  ever  painted 

For  potentate  or  king 
A  picture  quite  like  Abbie 

A-drinking  at  the  spring. 

The  rusted,  battered  dipper, 

When  raised  to  her  pure  lips. 
Was  filled  with  nectar  sweeter 

Than  that  which  Bacchus  sips. 
No  hand-wrought  cup  of  silver 

Could  recollections  bring 
Like  the  dipper  used  by  Abbie 

A-drinking  at  the  spring. 


CRADLED     MOONS  57 

Her  laughing  eyes  reflected 

The  liquid  depths  below, 
And  as  I  stood  and  watched  them 

My  heart  was  steeped  in  woe; 
Alas  for  me!  I'm  married, 

And  hound  as  with  a  string, 
I  must  not  think  of  Abbie 

A-drinking  at  the  spring. 


I  AM  ONLY  DREAMING,  DREAMING 

Golden  hair  and  laughing  eyes, 

Wealth  of  beauty  which  men  prize, 

Ruby  lips  and  form  divine, 

No,  they  never  can  be  mine, 

I  am  only  dreaming,  dreaming, 
With   the    golden   moonlight    streaming 
Through  my  study  door. 

Just  a  boy  I  seem  to  be, 

Happy  as  a  lark  and  free, 

Romping  through  the  wooded  dell 

With  the  one  I  love  so  well, 

But   I'm  only  dreaming,  dreaming, 
With  the  golden  moonlight  gleaming 
Through  my  study  door. 

Why,  oil  why,  must  I  awake. 

And  my  pleasant  dreams  forsake. 

Wake  and  find  denied  to  me 

All  but  grave  reality? 

Know  I'm  only  dreaming,  dreaming, 
With  the  golden  moonlight  beaming 
Through  my  study  door. 


58  CRADLED     MOONS 


THE  MOON,  THE  CLOUDS  AND   THE  WIND 

The  moon  would  shine  on  the  earth  below, 

But  the  clouds  said  "Nay," 
They'd  tease  her  by  rifting  an  inch  or  so, 
They'd  mock  her  by  thinning  their  depths,  and  crow 
When  the  angry  moon  its  choler  would  show 

In  its  dismay. 

The  moon  then  whistled  the  wind  to  come, 

And  begged  its  aid, 

It  came  with  a  rush,  and  roar,  and  hum, 
It  came  in  a  mood  so  quarrelsome 
That  the  naughty  clouds  were  all  struck  dumb, 

And  were  afraid. 

They  scampered  away  like  frightened  mice, 

And  then  for  this 

The  moon  paid  the  wind  its  usual  price 
For  using  its  blust'ring,  fierce  device 
To  scatter  such  pest'ring  clouds  in  a  trice, 

A  golden  kiss. 


CRADLED     MOONS  59 


As  the  butterfly  held  in  the  mesli  of  the  net, 

So  have  I  caught  you,  darling,  at  last, 
'Twas  a  right  merry  chase  which  I'll  never  forget 

You  led  me  in  days  which  are  past. 

Your  poor  little  wings  are  worn  out  with  the  flight, 

They  were  strong  and  defiant  at  start, 
But  now  they're  outstretched  as  a  proof  of  Love's  might 

And  are  pinned  on  the  walls  of  my  heart. 

But,  unlike  the  insect  which  dies  when  impaled, 
Your  capture  and  pinions  have  seemed 

To  invigorate  life,  and  my  heart  is  assailed 
With  regrets  such  as  I've  never  dreamed. 

I  know  I've  no  right  to  steal  you  away, 

You  were  happy  when  sipping  the  dew 
From  the  sweet-scented  rose  and  the  hyacinths  gay 

Which  God  must  have  meant  just  for  you. 

But  wantons  like  me  never  think  till  too  late, 

Nor  regret  till  regrets  are  in  vain, 
We  pluck  where  we  will  and  we  quarrel  with  Fate 

When  denied  the  things  we  would  gain. 

I'm  sorry  if  I,  in  my  long,  cruel  race, 

To  capture  so  pretty  a  thing, 
Have  forgot  all  but  self  and  delights  of  the  chase, 

And  the  hopes  which  a  capture  might  bring. 


00  CRADLED     MOONS 

But  there, — never  mind,  I  shall  set  you  free ; 

Look !  here  are  the  pins  in  my  hand, 
If  you  will,  you  may  fly  to  your  flowers,  and  be 

The  same  rainbow  queen  of  the  land. 

What !  staying  around  when  you  might  go  your  way  ? 

'Tis  madness,  O   Butterfly  mine, 
Did  I  crush  your  poor  wings  so  you  really  must  stay 

And  weep  for  the  past  that  was  thine? 

No,  no,  pretty  one,  love  heals  every  wound, 
I've  guessed  why  you  stay, — 'tis  just  this: 

There's  honey  as  sweet  as  in  flowerets  found 
Which  lies  in  the  depth  of  a  kiss ! 


THE    BLAME 

Men  couple  her  name  with  sin  and  with  shame, 
They  sneer  as  she  passes  them  by, 

Yes,  they  do,  brother  mine,  yes,  they  do, 
But  she  not  alone  is  deserving  of  blame, 
Has  she  fallen  much  lower  than  I, 

Or  than  you,  brother  mine,  or  than  you? 

We  helped  her  along  the  vice-cobbled  road, 
We  made  it  alluring  and  grand, 

Yes  we  did,  brother  mine,  yes  we  did, 
And  coward-like  now,  we  turn  and  we  goad, 
And  the  shelter  of  home  to  such  of  her  brand 
We  forbid,  brother  mine,  we  forbid. 

We  forced  her  to  slave  for  a  pittance  a  day,. 
It  was  hard,  by  the  gods  !  it  was  hard, 

So  she  cried,  brother  mine,  so  she  cried, 
We  cabined  her  soul  and  we  stifled  its  play, 

We  fed  her  on  husks  and  all  pleasures  we  barred, 
She  'most  died,  brother  mine,  she  'most  died. 


CRADLED     MOONS  61 

We  licensed  the  hell  that  meant  ruin  to  her, 
Maybe  we  put  wine  to  her  lips, 

Did  we  thus,  brother  mine,  did  we  thus? 
We  tempted,  she  fell,  and  when  once  she  did  err, 
We  drove  and  we  scourged  her  with  whips 
Far  from  us,  brother  mine,  far  from  us. 

We  closed  every  path  that  led  to  the  right, 
We  locked  every  door  of  return, 

Was  it  wise,  brother  mine,  was  it  wise? 
And  with  hypocrite  hearts  and  with  tongues   all  polite 
We  buried  our  sins  in  an  urn 

Made  of  lies,  brother  mine,  made  of  lies. 

She  has  paid  the  price,  and  we  have  gone  free, 
'Twas  always  that  way  in  this  world, 

What  a  shame,  brother  mine,  what  a  shame ! 
The  onus  of  sucli  falls  upon  you  and  me, 
At  Judgment  this  truth  will  be  hurled, 

We're  to  blame,  brother  mine,  we're  to  blame ! 


THE    DAWN 

Shimmering,  glimmering,  mystical   Dawn, 
Herald  art  thoii  of  the  birtli  of  the  morn, 
Robed  in  thy  gown  bespangled  with  dew, 
Flushed  is  thy  cheek  with  a  deep  crimson  hue, 
Golden  thy  locks  and  blue  is  thine  eye, 
Sweet  are  my  thoughts  when  thy  charms  I  descry. 

Gloom  in  my  heart  at  thy  coming  takes  wings. 
Joy  sees  thy  smile  and  exultingly  sings, 
Memory  sleeps   and  dead  is   the    past. 
Yester-year's  hopes  like  an  army  are  massed, 
Strengthened,  I  leap  with  a  power  new-born. 
Loosed  from  my  doubts,  I  welcome  thee,  Dawn. 


62  CRADLED     MOONS 


THE    LAND    OF    SHADOWS 

The  Land  of  Shadows  is  the  Land  of  Dreams, 

The  realms  of  the  "Might  have  been," 
And  it  lies  just  beyond  the  mountains  called  "Schemes/ 

It  is  close  to  the  land  of  "Begin" ; 
Their  shores  do  not  meet,  though  the  roseate  rays 

Of  the  sunshine  of  Hope  oft  have  shone 
On  them  both  in  the  dawn,  but  it  lights  up  the  days 

Of  the  Land  of  "Begin"  alone. 

The  Land  of  Shadows  is  the  Land  of  Death, 

It  looms  on  the  great  sea  of  Life 
Like  a  mirage  of  Hell,  yet  it's  lost  in  a  breath 

When  it's  touched  by  the  winds  of  strife; 
'Tis  peopled  by  ghosts  of  the  wrecks  of  mankind, 

'Tis  watered  by  Lethean  springs, 
No  flowers  grow  there  and  no  trees  will  you  find, 

And  never  a  bird  sweetly  sings. 

The  Land  of  Shadows  is  the  Land  of  Shame, 

The  shame  of  our  imperfect  wills, 
Where  impulses  burst  for  a  moment  in  flame, 

And  die  ere  they  light  up  the  hills ; 
I'd  much  rather  live  in  the  Land  of  "Begin," 

Where  dreams  and  where  doubts  are  unknown, 
Where  the  gods  of  the  land  bid  men  rise  up  and  win 

Through  the  strength  of  affirming  alone. 


CRADLED     MOONS  63 


THE   WOMAN   IN   MY   ARMS 

As  the  soft  white  down  of  the  wild  duck's  wing 
Or  the  gossamer  webs  which  the  spiders  fling 
In  filmy  tangle  beside  the  spring 

So  light  are  the  weights  of  love; 
And  my  weakling  arms  are  as  bands  of  steel 
When  my  sweetheart's  form  in  their  clasp  I  feel, 
For  the  gods  give  strength  to  a  lover's  zeal 

And  smile  from  their  heights  above. 

For  my  loved  one's  kiss  and  her  soft  caress 
Dispel  every  tinge  of  my  weariness 
Brought  on  by  a  day  of  bitterness 

In  the  marts  where  the  slavish  toil; 
And  her  gentle  voice  with  its  liquid  strain 
Seems  Lethean  like  to  each  seeming  pain, 
And  drives  from  my  mind  every  trouble  profane 

And  thought  of  the  day's  turmoil. 

Here's  a  kiss,  my  love,  with  a  silent  prayer, 

Which,  granted,  shall  yield  you  blessings  so  fair 

That    naught   with    your   happiness    e'er    shall    compare 

While  God  gives  you  life  on  earth ; 
My  arms  I'll  extend  to  encircle  your  soul, 
A  refuge  for  you  when  storm  billows  roll. 
My  heart  shall  I. keep  for  your  fullest  control 

As  tribute  to  womanhood's  worth. 


64  CRADLED     MOONS 


WHISPERING    FLOWERS 

Whispering   flowers,    murmuring  hours, 
Nodding  and  sighing  to  us  as  you  grow, 

Bowing  and  bending, 

Sweet  perfume  lending, 

Zephyrs  attending 
Which  softly  blow. 

Tell  me  your  story,  whence  comes  your  glory, 
Why  are  your  petals  with  color  aglow? 

Have  you  been  stealing 

Hues  from  earth's  ceiling, 

And  them  revealing 
To  us  below? 

Sunrise  and  sunset,  cobalt  and  roset, 

All  have  been  merged  and  in  you  overflow, 

Each  color  gleaming 

Reflects  the  streaming 

Sun  in  its  beaming, 
Radiant  bow. 

When  Nature  fashioned  in  love  impassioned, 
Did  she  intend  just  your  beauty  to  show? 

In  your  gay  dressing 

Was  she  not  blessing 

Us  by  expressing 
Love  which  we  know  ? 


CRADLED  .  MOOXS      6.5 


SUNSET  IN  TREASURE  VALLEY 

The  golden  stream  reflects  the  gleam 

Of  sunset  on  the  hills, 
The  waters  glide  in  peace  beside 

A  land  which  nature  tills. 
No  dark  clouds  loom  with  wrathful  gloom 

To  mar  the  gorgeous  sight, 
The  whispering  trees  rocked  by  the  breeze 

Have  kissed  the  sun  good-night 
Again  in  Treasure  Valley. 

The  herded  sheep  in  grasses  deep 

No  longer  roam  the  vale, 
The  rising  moon  gives  light  that  soon 

Will  flood  eacli  hill  and  dale. 
The  barn-yard  fowl  and  beasts  that  prowl 

Have  sought  their  covered  nooks, 
No  singing  bird  is  seen  or  heard 

Where   flows  the  babbling  brooks, 
'Tis  night  in  Treasure  Valley. 

Enraptured,  I  view  earth  and  sky 

In  glorious  ecstasy, 
For  this  is  life,  here  is  no  strife, 

But  all  is  harmony. 
I  fain  would  stay  by  night  and  day 

By  Golden  River's  lands, 
When  sets  my  sun  and  life  is  done 

I'd  rest  beneath  its  sands 

For  aye  in  Treasure  Valley. 


66  CRADLED     MOONS 

LINES  TO  THE  BOSTON  Y.  M.  C.  A. 

On  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  the  New  Building, 
October  3,  1912. 

A  signed  copy  of  this  poem  was  deposited  in  the  corner 
stone  box  of  the  Y.  M.  C.  A.  Building 

Thou  mighty  force  which  builds  today  and  well 
A  fitting  home  to  give  expression  to 
Thy  noble  work  which  lias  no  parallel 
In  this  our  day ;  we  pledge  to  thee  anew 
Our  strength,  our  love ;  and  fervently  we  pray 
That  He  Whose  life  has  been  thy  glowing  light 
Will  bless  these  walls  which  symbolize  the  way' 
Thou  doest  good,— the  way  of  building  right 

Builder  in  men  of  character  sublime, 
Whose  life  outlasts  such  monuments  as  these 
Which  must  give  way  to  all-destroying  Time 
Despite  their  strength,  and  fall  when  Age  decrees, 
Thy  work  shall  last;  thy  noblest  building  stands 
Defying  all  the  elements  and  e'en  Eternity, 
It  is  a  house  that  was  not  made  by  hands, 
Its  cornerstone, — the  Holy  Trinity. 

Teacher  of  Truth,  men's  bodies  thou  hast  shown 
To  be  the  biding  place  of  greater  things 
Than  e'er  were  dreamed,  or  by  our  fathers  known, 
The  gods  of  health,  long  bound  by  custom's  strings ; 
Thou  makest  men  where  brutes  had  seemed  to  dwell, 
Thou  findest  depths  where  shallows  heretofore 
Had  marked  Life's  sea; — thou  always  builded  well 
For  no  reward  but  Love, — received  no  more. 

If  all  the  deeds  which  glorify  thy  past 
Were  marked  by  stones  and  built  within  this  wall, 
The  World  would  stand  amazed  because  so  vast 
Would  be  this  pile  that  naught  could  hold  it  all; 


CRADLED     MOONS  67 

Were  half  the  things  made  possible  through  thee, 
Or  quarter  known,  thy  name  would  ring  for  aye 
Through  unborn  years,  and  men  thy  worth  would  see, 
And  pray  the  Lord  thy  strength  to  amplify. 

Rise  up,  ye  walls,  your  heads  in  splendor  lift, 
No  grander  heritage  than  yours  I  ken, 
For  you  shall  house  God's  greatest,  noblest  gift 
To  mortal  kind — the  gift  to  work  for  men. 
Build  strong,  ye  builders,  typify  in  stone 
The  divine  attitude  which  marks  the  past, 
The  sacrificial  spirit,  which  alone 
Has  made  this  great  Association  last. 


THE    FINISHED    HOUSE 

Written   for  the   Dedication   of  the   New   Boston 
Y.  M.  C.  A.  Building 

The  finished  house.      The  realized  dream  of  those 

Who  bore  the  brunt  of  pioneering  toil 

Midst  darkened  hours  of  doubt  and  stern  resolve 

And  saw  it  loom  as  Jacob  viewed  the  steps 

Loom  high  to   Heaven ;   whose   prayers  moved  mountain 

rocks 
Of  men's  indifference. 

Behold  it  now ! 

Complete   it  stands — complete,  yet  not  complete, 
Eacli  brick  within  its  bounds  marks  sacrifice 
Of  earnest  souls  who  moulded  flesh  and  blood 
Into  its  chryalis.      Its   heritage 
So  grand,  so  rich,  must  equalled  be  by  deeds 
Ere  it  doth  stand  complete. 


68  CRADLED     MOONS 

How  proud  it  gleams ! 

A    conscious    pride.      Its    form    seems    animate 
And  breathing  hope  of  future  worth  and  place. 
It  feels  the  blood  of  Service  course  and  run 
Within  its  veins, — the  purest,  richest  blood, 
Drawn  from  its  pristine  source,  the  Master's  heart, 
The  Sacrificial  Lamb. 

God's  proven  wealth ! 

The  Book  of  Life.      Its  gold  of  knowledge  shines 
Within  these  walls,  and  needs  no  alchemist 
To  bare  its  sheen ;  no  mint  to  coin  its  form 
For  earthly  use.      The  struggling  soul's  desire 
Is  here  fulfilled.      Save  immortality, 
No  greater  boon  exists. 

The   earth-clay's    needs ! 

God's  temple,  loaned,  herein  finds  strength  renewed. 
The  deep,  sore  wounds  of  worldly  conflict  heal 
As  though  some  potent  talisman  had  charmed 
And  cured  straightway.      The  almost-man  here  finds 
His  nature's  needed  vent.      The  streams  of  life 
Pulsate  and  flow  within. 

O  God  of  Hosts ! 

This  finished  house  we  dedicate  to  Thee ! 
We  pledge  its  service  and  its  inhered  strength 
Unto  Thy  cause.      Yet  not  in  vaunting  pride 
We  offer  this.      We  but  return  a  tithe 
For  measures  granted  us.      Bless  Thou  this  house, 
O  God  of  Hosts !     Amen. 


CRADLED     MOONS  60 


THE   YARN   OF  THE   "BILLOWS   QUEEN' 


While  resting  in  a  quiet  park 

One  sultry  summer  day, 
I  heard  a  grizzled  tar's  remark, 

And  turned  my  gaze  his  way. 
His  tone,  his  walk,  his  style,  his  look 

Betrayed  the  sailor  bold, 
His  bent  and  crooked  body  shook 

As  he  this  story  told. 


Before  him,  seated  in  a  row, 

Were  children  half  a  score, 
I  saw  their  faces  flush  and  glow 

Because  of  treats  in  store, 
And  I  could  not  but  overhear 

The  gray-haired  mariner, 
As  he  told  of  his  life's  career 

I   played  the  listener. 


He  sat  upon  the  grassy  sod 

And  puffed  his  pipe  of  clay, 
And  with  a  wink  and  knowing  nod 

To  me,  I  heard  him  say: 
"Yo  ho,  my  hearty  crew,  yo  ho, 

A  story  will  I  tell 
Which   none   but  me   its   truth   doth  know, 

Indeed,  I  know  it  well. 


T\vas  in  the  year  of  '61, 

I  never  shall  forget. 
And  though  full  fifty  years  have  gone. 

Its  menmrv   haunts  me  vet. 


70  CRADLED     MOOXS 

I  sailed  upon  the  'Billows  Queen/ 
A  good  ship,  staunch  and  bold, 

A  trimmer  craft  I  ne'er  have  seen, 
Nor  e'er  hope  to  behold. 


A  goodly  crew  we  had  on  board, 

Nigh  thirty  robust  tars. 
Our  Captain  was  by  all  adored, 

He  knew  each  harbor's  bars. 
We  hoisted  sail  at  Boston  Town, 

Bound  to  the  Afric  shore, 
And  in  our  hold  was  battened  down 

A  hundred  casks  or  more. 


Each  cask  contained  old  Medford  rum 

To  cheer  the  Hottentot, 
And  I'll  confess  that  often  some 

Of  us  its  good  cheer  sought. 
We'd  scarce  been  out  three  days  at  sea 

When  stormy  winds  awoke 
The  ocean  from  its  reverie 

And  did  its  rage  provoke. 

The  waves  they  ran  like  mountains  high, 

We  thought  our  doom  was  sealed, 
The  lightnings  flashed  from  out  the  sky, 

And  our  bare  poles  revealed. 
We  rode  first  on  the  highest  crest, 

Then  sank  into  the  trough, 
No  voice  was  heard  in  laughing  jest. 

Xo  one  was  known  to  scoff. 

\Ve  prayed  the  saints  as  ne'er  before, 

With  fervor  not  outdone, 
And  some  got  mixed  and  loudly  swore, 

For  prayers  they  had  learned  none. 


71 


I  heard  the  bos'n  rant  and  curse, 

I  heard  the  mate  revile, 
And  what  the  Captain  said  was  worse 

In  fluency   and  style. 

The  wind  it  blew  us  off  our  course 

Almost  a  thousand  knots, 
Unto  the  North  with  frightful  force 

To  cold  and  unknown  s_pots. 
We  soon  were  in  the  Arctic  climes, 

Where  icebergs  could  be  seen, 
All  threatening  to  smash  at  times 

Our  good  ship  'Billows  Queen.' 

That  storm  had  lasted  most  a  week 

Ere  we  could  see  the  blue 
And  smiling  sky,  though  we  did  seek 

Each  day  the  sun  anew; 
And  when  at  last  it  shone  out  bright, 

We  danced  in  ecstasy, 
But  suddenly  we  saw  a  sight 

Which  stopped  our  shouts  of  glee." 


The  old  man  paused  and  looked  around 

The  quiet  little  group, 
Who  sat  upon  the  grassy  mound, 

An  interested  troupe, 
With  rounded  eyes  and  faces  white 

They  listened  eagerly, 
And  to  be  frank,  he  did  excite 

My  curiosity. 


They  waited  for  him  to  renew 
His  story  of  the  sea, 

And  as  he  filled  his  pipe  anew 
The  old  man  winked  at  me. 


72  CRADLED     MOONS 

I  saw  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
I  heard  him  chuckle  low, 

As  he  commenced  to  amplify 
And  make  his  story  grow. 


"Our  good  ship's  bow  was  headed  south 

When  lo !  abaft  the  beam, 
We  stared  with  widely  open  mouth 

And  saw  the   sunlight  gleam 
Upon  an  ice-encrusted  mast 

A  league  or  more  away, 
An  ancient  craft  bound  hard  and  fast 

Full  many  an  Arctic  day. 


Although  we  knew  full  well  our  plight, 

We  luffed  her,  then  hove  to, 
And  launched  our  boats  with  all  our  might, 

And  towards  the  wreck  we  drew. 
The  air  was  bitter,  bitter  cold, 

'Twas  forty,  quite,  below, 
For  miles  around  we  could  behold 

The  white  and  crusted  snow. 


We  stepped  upon  the  icy  main, 

And  o'er  its  tortuous  grind 
We  struggled  on  with  fear  and  pain, 

The  whiteness  made  us  blind. 
The  way  seemed  longer,  too,  by  far 

That  we,  had  deemed  it  so, 
But  nearer  loomed  that  naked  spar 

Which  beckoned  us  to  go. 


With  fearful  hearts  ^we  toward  it  drew, 

Our  party  numbered  ten, 
The  bravest  of  our  goodly  crew, 

All  sturdy,  stalwart  men. 


CRADLED     MOONS  73 

We  climbed  the  ragged,  icy  peaks, 

We  wrested  with  the  snow, 
The  wind  it  slashed  and  cut  our  cheeks, 

'Twas  fierce  to  undergo. 

An  hour  brought  us  to  the  wreck, 

An  ancient  craft  was  she, 
We  clambered  quickly  on  her  deck 

With  all  our  energy. 
We  noted  everything  in  sight 

From  forecastle  to  aft, 
To  see  if  anything  there  might 

Be  salvage  on  the  craft. 

But  all  was  still  and  like  a  tomb, 

Thougli  as  we  gazed  around 
WTe  noted  that  despite  her  doom 

Her  timbers  were  all  sound. 
We  knew,  she  must  have  been  at  least 

A  hundred  odd  years  old, 
And  since  her  active  days  had  ceased 

Full  seventy-five  were  told. 


The  rigging,  what  was  left  of  it, 

Was  of  an  ancient  style, 
And  nothing  outward  did  befit 

Our  needs  or  seem  wortli  while. 
We  forced  the  frozen  deck  house  door, 

And  entered  one  by  one, 
The  Captain's  room  first  to  explore 

Ere  we  the  hold  begun. 


And  I  was  first  of  all  of  those 
Who  entered  in  that  place, 

I  tripped  and  fell,  and  as  I  rose 
I  gazed  into  a  face. 


74  CRADLED     MOONS 

'My  God!'  I  cried,  for  sitting  there 

Before  me  I  could  see 
A  frozen  man  in  an  old  chair, 

Alive,  he  looked  to  be. 

And  in  that  dim,  uncertain  light 

His  eyes  shone  with  a  glare 
At  me,  as  if  to  ask  what  right 

I  had  to  enter  there. 
And  question  why  I  dared  intrude 

In  such  an  awkward  way, 
With  manners  that  were  very  rude 

And  ignorance  display. 

But  sailors  have  no  time  to  fear, 

And  we  all  gathered  round 
The  grewsome  sight  with  oath  and  jeer 

To  learn  what  could  be  found. 
There  in  a  corner  I  espied, 

Stretched  out  as  if  asleep, 
A  maiden  fair,  who  must  have  died 

While  in  a  slumber  deep. 

A  prettier  lass  I've  never  seen, 

Although  death  robbed  her  bloom, 
A  frozen  smile  was  on  her  mien, 

Which  seemed  to  light  the  room. 
Methought  that  eighteen  years  had  rolled 

Ere  this  catastrophe 
O'erwhelmed  her,  and  the  bitter  cold 

Had  stilled  her  youthful  glee. 


The  dress  of  both  the  man  and  maid 

Was  of  a  period  known 
When  George  the  Third  his  hosts  arrayed 

Against  our  valiant  own. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  7o 

The  furniture  bespake  the  day 

When  Paul  Jones  did  his  share 
To  drive  the  British  fleet  away 

In  fear  and  dire  despair. 

No  other  bodies  did  we  find, 

Although  we  searched  right  well. 
And  eacli  of  us  the  cause  oyined 

The  reason  we  could  tell. 
The  coward  crew  which  manned  the  boat 

Had  taken  to  the  sea 
When  icy  storms  the  vessel  smote 

With  dreadful  cruelty. 


We  found  the  vessel's  log  and  read, 

She  was  the  'Polly  Q,' 
And  hailed  from  New  York  Port,  it  said, 

In  seventeen  eighty-two; 
And  she  was  bound  to  old  Bordeaux 

To  fill  her  hold  witli  wine, 
And  in  her  cargo  down  below 

Were  silks  and  cottons  fine. 

We  had  no  mind  to  carry  off 

Such  cargo  on  the  ice 
O'er  ragged  peaks  and  hollowed  trough, 

We  had  no  sledge  device ; 
But  up  I  spake  and  said  we  ought 

In  decency  to  take 
The  frozen  dead  and  them  allot 

A  grave  of  Christian  make. 

I  laugh  whene'er  I  think  of  how 

We  tried  to  lift  the  male 
From  his  cold  scat,  and   even   now 

I  laugh  to  tell  the  tale." 


76  CRADLED     MOONS 

The  old  man  paused  again  and  roared, 
His  body  shook  and  swayed, 

"Ha,  ha,"  lie  cried,  "words  can't  record 
The  sight  that  poor  corpse  made." 


He  slapped  his  right  knee,  then  his  left, 

And  then  slapped  both  at  once, 
He  laughed  until  he  was  bereft 

Of  breath  and  utterance. 
I  waited  for  him  to  resume, 

The  children  waited,  too, 
Until  he  would  again  presume 

To  start  his  tale  anew. 


And  soon  again  with  nod  and  wink 

To  me  the  old  man  spoke, 
"Ha,  ha !  ho.  ho  !  what  do  you  think 

Such  laughter  would  provoke  ? 
For  he  was  frozen  hard  and  fast, 

We  pulled  with  might  and  main, 
And  suddenly  the  old  chair  smashed 

Beneath  the  awful  strain. 


The  poor  corpse  fell  upon  the  floor 

With  a  tremendous  crash, 
And  when  he  struck,  into  a  score 

Of  bits  his  limbs  did  smash. 
His  arms  and  legs  flew  everywhere, 

His  poor  nose  went  askew, 
And  for  a  while  I  do  declare 

We  broken  up  were,  too. 

We  let  the  scattered  fragments  lie, 

And  ruefully  essayed 
Witli  tender  hands  and  greatest  care 

To  lift  the  frozen  maid. 


CRADLED     MOONS  77 

We  chopped  her  dresses  from  the  floor, 

And  gently  raised  her  high. 
And  up  the  stairs  and  through  the  door 

We  went  with  anxious  sigh. 


We  left  the  poor,  old  Tolly  Q,' 

Right  glad  was  I  for  one 
To  leave  the  craft,  and  all  the  crew 

Were  glad  their  work  was  done. 
And  soon  we  reached  the  rugged  coast, 

Where,  riding  safe,  was  seen, 
With  sails  all  furled,  our  pride  and  boast. 

The  good  ship  'Billows  Queen.' 


We  launched  our  boat  and  tenderly 

We  laid  our  burden  down, 
But  spite  our  care  I  awkwardly 

A  piece  broke  from  her  gown, 
For  happening  to  turn  around 

I  spied  two  polar  bears 
Approaching  us  with  leap  and  bound 

To  take  us  unawares. 


In  haste  we  shoved  off  from  the  shore, 

And  grabbed  our  oars  again, 
For  well  we  knew  what  was  in  store 

If  we  stayed  on  the  main. 
We  had  no  guns  or  such  on  board, 

And  but  a  single  knife. 
And  every  man  the  thought  abhorred 

Of  giving  up  his  life. 

The  bears  rushed  toward  our  launching  place 

And  with  a  roar  and  leap 
They  tumbled  in  and  gave  us  chase 

As  we  sped  o'er  the  deep. 


78  CRADLED     MOONS 

But,  spite  our  speed,  we  could  not  cope 

With  either  hungry  brute, 
We'd  almost  given  up  all  hope, 

So  swift  was  their  pursuit. 


We  saw  their  eyeballs  flash  and  glare, 

We  saw  their  cruel  teeth, 
Wt-  watched  them  with  a  resigned  stare, 

And  hardly  dared  to  breathe. 
The  foremost  beast  was  but  a  rod 

Or  two  behind  us,  when 
I  heard  a  crash,  and  cried,  'My  God !' 

A  swordfish  rammed  us  then. 


The  sword  it  barely  grazed  my  ear, 

It  lifted  up  our  prow. 
I  snatched  a  rope  and  spite  my  fear 

I  tied  it  to  the  bow. 
The  fish  it  struggled  with  its  might 

To  draw  its  sword-point  out, 
And  backward  swam  in  rapid  flight, 

We  gave  a  lusty  shout. 


For  in  its  haste  it  drew  us  fast 

Straight  towards  the  'Billows  Queen,' 

The  bears  in  speed  were  both  outclassed, 
,  'Twas  easy  to  be  seen. 

The  men  on  board  our  valiant  ship 
Had  heard  the  noise  we  made, 

Amazed,  they  watched  our  rowboat  skip, 
Their  wonder  they  displayed. 


The  poor  fish  could  not  see  the  boat, 

And  bumped  into  its  side, 
So  great  its  speed  that  when  it  smote 

The  'Billows  Queen'  it  died. 


CRADLED     MOONS  79 

With  willing  hands  men  lent  us  aid 

To  reach  our  good  ship's  deck, 
And  gently  raised  the  frozen  maid 

We'd  brought  off  from  the  wreck. 


They  carried  her  with  softened  tread 

Into  the  galley,  where 
They  laid  her  down  upon  a  bed 

Beside  the  fire's  glare, 
And  I  was  detailed  from  the  men 

To  watcli  and  see  that  she 
Did  not  get  burned  and  to  tell  when 

A-thawed  she  seemed  to  be. 


They  filled  a  flagon  to  the  brim 

From  out  the  vessel's  store 
To  keep  my  spirits  in  good  trim, 

I  could  not  ask  for  more. 
The  room  was  warm,  and  soon  I  fell 

Into  a  slumber  deep,. 
I  must  have  dreamed,  for  witli  a  yell 

I  woke  from  out  my  sleep. 

I  glanced  towards  where  the  maiden  lay 

And  by  the  fire's  light 
I  saw  her  move  an  arm  away 

With  just  a  motion  slight. 
I  scarce  believed  what  my  eyes  saw, 

It  could  not  be,  I  said, 
That  she  would  flout  Dame  Nature's  law 

And  come  back  from  the  dead. 


I  loudly  called  unto  the  crew, 

Who  came  upon  the  run, 
And  they  stood  round  and  watched  her,  too, 

Aye,  every  mother's  son, 


80  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  soon  a  leg  she  moved,  and  then 
We  saw  an  eyelash  wink, 

Ere  long  she  moved  an  arm  again, 
We  knew  not  what  to  think. 


Then  up  there  spake  a  sailor  bold, 

And  said  we  ought  to  pour 
A  glass  of  spirits  down  her  hold,' 

And  then  perhaps  some  more. 
We  put  some  brandy  in  a  glass, 

Enough  for  two  good  nips, 
And  when  we  fed  it  to  the  lass 

She  smiled  and  smacked  her  lips. 

She  soon  thawed  out  and  seemed  as  well 

.   As  any  maid  could  be, 

And  none  the  worse  for  what  befell 

Her  in  the  Arctic  sea ;  . 

And  she  could  not  believe  that  most 

Four-score  years  had  flown  by 
Since  they  were  wrecked  upon  that  coast 

Beneath  the  northern  skv. 


She  thought  she'd  only  fell  asleep 

Upon  the  cabin  floor, 
And  hoped  to  rise  with  the  first  peep 

Of  daylight  through  the  door. 
She  told  us  of  the  dastard  crew 

And  of  her  father  bold, 
Whom  we  broke  up  into  a  few 

Odd  thousand  pieces,  cold. 


The  Captain  in  his  gallantry 
Gave  up  his  room  to  her, 

And  all  the  crew  did  vie  to  see 
Which  one  she  would  prefer. 


81 


And  though  in  years  she  was  quite  old, 

'Twas  easily  observed 
That  Time  its  imprints  did  withhold, 

And  left  her  well  preserved. 

I  was  a  stalwart,  handsome  lad, 

And  soon  I  saw  her  eyes 
Were  cast  on  me  with  glances  glad 

With  no  thought  of  disguise. 
And  though  I  was  but  twenty-three 

And  she  was  ninety-eight, 
I  loved  her  true,  and  she  loved  me, 

To  marry  was  our  fate. 

And  when  we  got  to  Boston  town 

We  found  a  preacher  good 
With  book  in  hand  and  surplice  gown, 

Who  spliced  us  as  he  should, 
And  oftentimes  she  sailed  with  me 

Upon  the  'Billows  Queen,' 
We  weathered  many  a  storm,  and  sea, 

And  life  was  all  serene. 

Full  forty  years  we  happy  were, 

And  then  she  up  and  died, 
While  ever  since  I  have  mourned  her,  — 

She  was  my  joy  and  pride. 
Although  she  was  not  very  young, 

She  never  looked  her  age, 
But  she  knew  how  to  hold  her  tongue 

And  save  my  seaman's  wage. 


And  now,  my  hearty  lads,  I've  done, 
My  yarn  is  finished  quite, 

So  run  along  in  play  and  fun 
And  frolic  in  delight." 


82  CRADLED     MOONS 

The  old  man  rose  upon  his  cane. 

And  with  another  wink 
To  me  he  said,  "It  looks  like  rain, 

The  wind  is  east,  I  think." 

And  as  he  started  off  to  go, 

A  child's  voice  piped,  "I  wish 
The  old  man  had  a  let  us  know 
What  they  did  with  the  fish." 
And  even  I  would  like  to  learn 
If  swordfish  steak  was  seen 
Upon  the  mess-cloth  near  the  stern 
Of  the  good  ship  "Billows  Queen." 


TO  AN  OLD,  OLD   BOOK 

To   what   strange   chance,   thou   sere   and   yellow   book, 

Am  I  indebted  for  thy  presence  here? 

Who  brought  thee  forth  from  thy  obscurity 

And  bade  the  ribald  present  pause  and  look 

Upon  the  confined  wisdom  of  a  year 

Long  since  engulfed  in  the  Eternity  ? 

Thou'rt  but  a  link  in  the  forged  chain  of  Time 
Which  fetters  cycles  and  an  eon's  years, 
Methink'st  thy  hoop  hath  welded  been  of  gold, 
And  binds  thy  past  to  present  days  of  mine, 
Nor  weights  my  soul  with  joyless,  doleful  fears, 
Thy  wisdom  taught  cannot  for  aye  grow  old. 


CRrU3LED     MOONS  83 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  RUSHING  FLOOD 

I  have  burst  the  bonds  of  my  gaoler,  Man, 

I,  the  captive  that  was,  am  free, 
Untrammelled  I  surge,  and  I  laugh  at  his  plan 

To  hold  me  by  dam  or  levee ; 
I  uproot  and  crush  everything  in  the  rush 

Of  my  waters  as   onward  they  flow, 
And  I  laugh  to  behold  my  jailqr  of  old 

As  he  races  to  hill  and  plateau ! 

Man  has  bound  me  long  in  the  grip  of  his  hand, 

On  my  bosom  his  white  fleets   I   bore, 
I  have  ground  his  corn,  I  illumined  his  land, 

And  for  naught  have  I  garnered  his  store ; 
But  now  I  am  freed,  each  bound  is  a  reed, 

To  me  and  the  power  I  own, 
I  mine  and  tear  down  every  city  and  town, 
And  I  chortle  when  man  I  dethrone ! 

My  comrades  in  arms  are  Tornado  and  Flame, 

And  Famine  tracks  close  on  our  heels. 
For  the  mischief  we  do  man  himself  is  to  blame. 

The  wood-lands  he  foolishly  peels ; 
For  man  is  a  fool,  and  lie  dams  me  by  rule. 

He  builds  on  the  edge  of  my  realm, 
And  he  never  can  learn  to  prepare  ere  I  turn 

And  scourge   with  my  might,  and  o'erwhelm ! 

Oh.  I  come  with  a  rush  and  .a  roar  and  bound, 

No  power  can  stay   nor  defy, 
And   lest   weakling   man    seeks    the    rise    of   the    ground, 

He  and  his  kind  must  die  ! 
For  I  am  the  Flood,  and  my  waters  are  blood, 

They  boil  with  the  fevers  of  rage. 
Oh.  I   mock  and  I  jeer  at  man's  whimpering  fear 

When   I'm  out  of  my   bound  and  gauge  ! 


84  CRADLED     MOONS 

OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS 

(De  Profundis) 

Out  of  the  depths  comes  a  voice  I  hear  calling, 

Calling  "Young  man,  young  man," 
Soft  on  my  ear  are  its  grave  accents  falling, 

Ever  "Young  man,  young  man, 

The  years  are  unfolding 

The  life  you  are  moulding, 
What  is  it,  young  man,  to  be? 

Will  you  fashion  your  clay 

In  a  haphazard  way. 
Or  build  for  eternity. 
Or  build  for  eternity?" 

Out  of  the  depths  comes  a  voice  I  hear  saying, 

Saying,  "Young  man,  young  man," 
A  voice  that  reproaches,  in  language  inveighing, 

"Why  do  you  lag,  young  man? 

The  world  is  demanding 

The  life  you're  commanding, 
The  life  that  you  waste  away, 

There's  no  need  for  droning 

With  strength  that  you're  owning, 
Necessity  cries  to-day, 
Necessity  cries  to-day." 

Out  of  the  depths  comes  a  voice  that  is  pleading, 

Pleading,  "Young  man,  young  man, 
Your   Master  entreats  and  you  should  be  heeding, 

You  must  obey,  young  man, 

In  each  undertaking 

Your  history's  making, 
Build  for  the  future  to  see, 

For  life  is  beginning, 

Your  spurs  you  are  winning," 
Oh  thus  spakf  the  voice  to  me. 
Oh  thus  spake  the  voice  to  me. 


CRADLED     MOONS  85 


TO    THE    FAIR    UNKNOWN 

To  the  fair  unknown!     These  lines  I  dedicate, 

And  if  the  gods  of  chance  are  very  kind 
And  be  at  all  towards  me  compassionate, 

Perchance  they  may  create  some  gentle  wind 
Which  will,  like  balmy  zephyrs  from  the  south, 

Bearing  in  their   soft   embrace   the   warm   sun's   kiss, 
Whisper  the  words  I  fain  would  speak  by  mouth 

To  her,  my  only  hope  of  earthly  bliss. 

It  matters  not  that  I  as  yet  have  never 

Gazed  with  enraptured  eyes  upon  her  face. 
My  soul  is  filled  with  love  which  lives  forever, 

And  none  but  she  my  throne  of  love  will  grace. 
I  see  her  in  the  flowers  of  the  wildwood, 

As  pure  as  they  when  bathed  in  summer  dew, 
The  charm  and  grace  of  sweet,  unspotted  childhood 

Are  vet  unsullied  in  mv  mental  view. 


It  matters  not  that  I  have  never  listened 

To  her  sweet  voice  outpouring  on  the  air, 
For  every  song  that  ever  love  has  christened 

Creates  a  vision  of  my  lady  fair. 
I  hear  her  in  the  rippling,  trilling  water 

That  laughs  and  dances  in  yon  meadow  brook, 
And  often  have  I  in  the  greenwood  sought  her, 

Deceived  by  song  birds  in  jsome  hidden  nook. 

I  have  reared  to  her  an  altar  of  devotion, 
And  inscribed  it  as  Athenians  of  old 

To  the  one  who  claims  my  loftiest  emotion. 
And  is  worthy  of  love's  frankincense  and  gold. 


86  CRADLED     MOOXS 

And  I'm  waiting  for  some  mighty  Paul  of  learning 
To  declare  the  one  that  I  would  here  enthrone, 

To  declare  the  love  that  in  my  heart  is  burning 
To  the  fairest  of  the  fair  who's  still  unknown. 


WHO    IS    CONTENT? 

Who  is  content?     Surely  not  I. 

My  surging  soul  seems  to  command 
That  I  with  Pegasus  should  fly 

And  reach  some  high  and  noble  land 
Where  mountains   rise  and  torrents  swell, 

Where  giants  build  and  nought  is  small, 
Where  genii  of  learning  dwell, 

W7here  thought  is  might,  and  love  is  all. 

Who  is  content  ?      Not  he  who  holds 

That  God  intended  man  to  tear 
Aside  the  veil  which  He  enfolds 

Around   eacli   blessing    He   would   share, 
Who  holds  that  man  was  born  to  reign 

O'er  earth  supreme,  by  God's  decree, 
And  that  he  has  the  strength  to  gain 

Dominion  over  land  and  sea. 

Who  is  content?      Not  he  who  flies 

On  yonder  graceful,  bird-like  wings, 
Who  mounts  and  rises  towards  the  skies, 

And  in  exultant  triumph  sings, 
His  conquest  of  the  boundless  air 

Contents  him  not;  his  hope  is  set 
On  goals  which  only  reckless  dare, 

The  unattainable  as     et. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  87 

Who  is  content?      Not  those  who  seek 

The  germs  of  pestilence  and  death. 
Which  rob  the  bloom  from  manhood's  cheek, 

And*  steal  away  the  infant's  breath. 
Contentment  never   will   be  theirs 

Until  disease  and  mortal  pain 
And  miseries  to  which  we're  heirs 

Are  all  dispelled  and  none  remain. 

Who  is  content?     The  sluggard?     Yes, 

The  man  who  loves  his  rest  and  ease, 
The  man  who  yearns  not  to  possess 

The  things  which  do  the  mighty  please. 
The  man  who  leans  and  does  not  lift, 

The  man  who  is  indifferent, 
The  man  who  with  the  tide  dotli  drift, 

The   sluggard?     Yes, — he  is  content. 


HAPPINESS' 

Search  the  budding  flower. 

Pluck  the  tender  leaf, 

Steal  a  quiet  hour 

From  your  tears  and  grief. 

Roam  the  dales  and  mountains, 

Greet  the  radiant  dawn, 

Sip  at  Nature's  fountains 

and 
Happiness  is  born. 

Tear  the  fragrant  grasses, 
Find  their  scented  source, 


88  CRADLED     MOONS 

Kiss  the  lips  of  lasses, 
Love  brings  no  remorse. 
Mask  the  face  of  sorrow, 
Laugh  dull  care  to  scorn, 
Shed  your  tears  to-morrow, 

and 
Happiness  is  born. 


THE    "CLOSED-INS" 

Doomed  to  be  'compassed  by  four  walls, 
While  the  whole  world  goes  singing  and  free, 
To  respond  in  your  soul  to  the  earth  calls 
That  Nature  is  sending  to  thee; 
To  feel  in  your  heart  a  desire 
To  burst  every  barrier  down, 
To  sacrifice  Hope  on  a  pyre, 
To  be  told  you  are  earning  a  crown ; 
Hell  has  nothing  like  this. 

To  see  all  there  is  in  a  vision 
Restricted  and  cabined  by  fate, 
To  know  every  outline's  precision 
Till  your  soul  is  just  burning  with  hate; 
To  die  every  night  and  recover 

When  the  sun  bursts  through  chinks  in  the  blind, 
To  be  of  aesthetics  a  lover, 
Yet  meeting  but  little  refined: 
Hell  is  Heaven  to  this. 

To  know  that  the  morrow  will  bring  back 
The  same  that  it  brought  you  to-day, 
To  hunger,  and  yet  not  for  bread  lack, 
To  doubt,  while  your  tongue  tries  to  pray; 


CRADLED     MOONS  89 

To  envy,  yet  knowing  how  foolish 
Is  envy  when  it  cannot  gain, 
To  smile  when  you  want  to  be  mulish, 
To  suffer  and  yet  deny  pain, 
Hell  is  gladness  to  this. 


Where,  friend,  is  the  joy  of  the  "closed-in"? 
Pray  tell  this  old  pessimist  bard, 
A  secret  is  safe  when  reposed  in 
A  heart  that  holds  all  in  regard ; 
Mayhap  that  there's  joy  just  in  living, 
A  part  of  the  Infinite's  scheme, 
And  God  is  sustaining  and  giving 
Much  more  than  we  healthy  folks  dream. 
Hell  has  no  part  in  this. 


TO    A    FALLEN    TREE 

O  thou  grand  monarch  of  the  spacious  wood, 
Whose  towering  head  o'er-topped  thy  brother  trees, 
Whose  regal  crown  of  foliage  once  stood 
And  first  caught  secrets  of  the  whispering  breeze; 
Why  didst  thou  fall  and  to  what  fault  is  due 
Thy  present  state;  now  brother  to  the  clod 
Art  thou  indeed,  whom  once  the  forests  knew 
As  king  supreme  and  recognized  as  lord. 

Did  wintry  winds  or  lightning's  cruel  stroke 

Reveal  thy  heart  and  humble  thee  to  earth, 

Or  Nature's  sport  when  she  the  stillness  woke 

With    earthquake    laughter    from    her    boundless    mirth, 

Or  was  it  Time  whose  conquering  scythe  doth  mow 

The  aged  down,  nor  stops  to  answer  why, 

But  seeks  its  pleasures  with  the  young  that  grow 

With  naught  but  youth  and  self  to  gratify? 


90  CRADLED     MOONS 

Oh,  sleep  in  peace,  thou  fallen  sovereign, 
Thy  kingdom  lives,  thy  children  rule  the  vale, 
Thy  rest  is  earned  and  ne'er  wilt  thou  again 
Be  sport  for  storms  nor  bend  with  howling  gale; 
May  clinging  moss  and  gently  creeping  vine 
Enshroud  thy  form  and  hide  thy  limbs  from  view, 
And  build  thy  crypt  from  Nature's  own  design 
For  her  dead  kings ;  it  is  indeed  thy  due. 


THE    BECKONING    HILLS 

On  a  motto  that  hangs  by  my  desk  I  can  read 

That  contentment  is  what  men  should  learn, 
For  the  things  which  we  have  are  all  that  we  need, 

And  'tis  vain  for  us  mortals  to  yearn. 
But  when  I  gaze  through  my  window  and  see 

The  glories  of  Nature  as  shown 
In  the  range  of  blue  hills  which  beckon  to  me. 

My  hopes  of  contentment  have  flown. 

When  I'm  cramped  'twixt  four  walls  there  is  no  peace 
of  mind, 

For  memory  leads  me  a  chase, 
Over  hilltops  and  crags  which  oft  I  have  climbed 

'Midst  those  hills  whose  blue  outlines  I  trace. 
To  my  ears  they're  as  still  as  the  silence  of  death, 

Yet  mv  heart  seems  to  burst  with  the  sound 
Of  the  call  that  they  make,  and  the  winds  waft  a  breath 

Of  the  freedom  which  there  doth  abound. 

What  rhythmical  verse,  what  outburst  of  song 

Which  a  poet  might  pen,  can  compare 
With  the  voice  of  the  hills  as  they  cry  "Come  along, 

O  poet,  and  breathe  in  our  air?" 


CRADLED     MOONS  91 

» 

I,  for  one,  cannot  hear  that  call  of  the  wild, 

And  find  in  contentment  a  theme, 
Nor  can  I  remain  and  be  reconciled, 

And  only  of  such  freedom  dream. 

I  must  up  and  away,  those  hills  beckon  to  me, 

I  yearn  for  my  pinnacled  nests 
Higli  up  in  their  tops,  overlooking  the  sea, 

My  soul  at  restraint  now  protests. 
No  mottoes  I  need  to  teach  me  content, 

I  spurn  such  a  word,  when  behind 
The  walls  of  a  house,  for  these  hills  represent 

The  peace  that  my  nature  would  find. 


THE  BLUE  HILLS  OF  MILTON 

I  have  travelled  o'er  our  country 

Full  many  thousand  miles, 
I   have  seen  the  Rocky   Mountains, 

And  New  Hampshire's  stony  piles ; 
But  for  majesty  and  grandeur 

There's  none  appeals  to  me 
Like  the  great  Blue  Hills  of  Milton, 

Near  Boston  by  the  sea. 

They  are  not  so  very  lofty, 

But  from  their  heights  I've  seen 
God's  rich  country  round  about  me, 

A  paradise.  I   ween. 
Yon  stone  and  wood  reared  city. 

Capped  with  its  golden  dome, 
Stands  forth  in  all  its  splendor, 

It  is  the  Nation's  home. 


92  CRADLED     MOONS 


And  snug  nestling  in  the  valley, 

Reflecting  Heaven's  blue, 
Are  two  lakes  of  placid  water, 

They're  smiling  up  at  you. 
While  betwixt  you  and  the  city 

There  runs  a  silver  thread, 
'Tis   Neponset's  waters   flowing 

From  out  their  fountain  head. 


Over  yonder  in  the  distance 

Appalachian  Mounts  rise  high; 
In  the  eastward,  harbor  beacons 

Stand  out  against  the  sky. 
You  can  count  for  miles  around  you 

Church  spires  by  the  score, 
And  for  varied  views  of  Nature 

You  could  not  ask  for  more. 


But  the  sight  of  all  these  beauties 

Is  not  so  much  to  me 
As  the  wonders  of  Creation 

And  Nature's  mystery. 
The  thought  of  God's  infinitude 

Makes  finite  man  seem  small, 
As  I  contemplate  His  hand-work 

And  think  that  He  made  all. 


He  caused  all  these  mighty  rock  hills 

To  rise  from  out  the  plain, 
And  in  His  bounteous  goodness 

He  made  them  for 'man's  gain. 
As  the  years  and  ages  roll  by 

These  hills  shall  surely  stand 
A  monument  to  His  greatness, 

A  blessing  to  our  land. 


93 


Oh,  I've  travelled  o'er  this  country, 

Full  many  thousand  miles, 
I  have  seen  the  Rocky  Mountains, 

And  New  Hampshire's  stony  piles; 
But  for  majesty  and  grandeur 

There's  none  appeals  to  me 
Like  the  great  Blue  Hills  of  Milton, 

Near  Boston  by  the  sea. 


ON   CHICATAWBUT   HILL 


On  Chicatawbut  Hill  I  climbed, 

'  On  Chicatawbut  Hill, 
Upon  its  crest  sweet  verse  I  rhymed 

Responsive  to  the  thrill 
Of  Nature's  works  which  all  around 

Lay  stretched  before  my  gaze, 
For,  as  I  looked,  again  I  found 

The  charms  of  bygone  days. 


I  saw  the  hills  of  Milton  plain 

F'rom  Chieatawbut  Hill, 
And  they  recalled  to  me  again 

The  days  I  roamed  at  will; 
I  used  to  tram])  the  whole  range  o'er 

When  I  was  but  a  lad, 
Since  then  old  Time  has  closed  youth's  door, 

And  memories  make  me  sad. 


94  CRADLED     MOONS 


I  saw  the  great  stone  water  tower 

From  Chicatawbut  Hill, 
The  quarries  and  the  crags  that  lower 

And  fearsome  thoughts  instil. 
I've  sat  upon  the  crag-top's  height 

Full  many  and  many  a  time, 
And  oft  exclaimed  in  glad  delight 

O'er  views  which  were  sublime. 


I  saw  the  distant  ocean's  bay 

From  Chicatawbut  Hill, 
And  white-winged  boats  sped  on  their  way 

To  seas  of  good  or  ill. 
I  thought  that  sometime  I  must  sail 

On  unknown  seas,  somewhere, 
My  craft  must  weather  storm  and  gale, 

And  I  its  fate  must  share. 


I  saw  the  calm,  blue  sky  aloft 

From  Chicatawbut  Hill, 
A  few  white  fleecy  clouds,  as  soft 

As  swansdown,  rested  still; 
It  seemed  as  if  God's  artist,  sly. 

Had  dipped  his  brush  in  white 
And  wiped  it  out  upon  the  sky 

Ere  toning  shades  of  light. 


I  saw  a  blue-jay  flying  fast 

On  Chicatawbut  Hill, 
I  watched  him  close  as  he  flew  past, 

His  call  was  harsh  and  shrill, 
That  cry  alone,  of  all,  to  me 

Discordant  seemed  that  day. 
And  I  was  pleased  indeed  to  see 

That  blue-jay  fly  away. 


CRADLED     MOONS  95 

If  I  could  rhyme  all  joys  I  found 

On  Chicatawbut  Hill, 
My  verse  would  spread  the  earth  around 

And  every  eorner  fill ; 
But  mayhap,  friend,  you'll  climb  its  height, 

And  then  take  up  your  quill, 
Where  I've  left  off,  begin  to  write 

On  Chicatawbut  Hill. 


THE   GHOST   OF   THE    CRAGS 

'Midst   the   wild   and   open   country   scarce   without   the 

city's  bound, 

Rising  high  above  the  level  are  the  hills  of  Milton  found, 
Rich    in    legend,    rich    in    story,    rich    in    scenic    beauty 

grand, 
Marvellous  beyond  description,  overtopping  all  the  land. 

Capped  with   scrubby    oak   and   hemlock,   creviced  by   a 

hundred  brooks, 
Cleft   with   walls    of   solid   granite   hiding   many   sylvan 

nooks, 
Pleasant  valleys   'twixt  the   hill-crests,  views  unrivalled 

of  the  sea, 
Nature's   altars,  where   I    worship,  such  are  these   Blue 

Hills  to  me. 

Over  towards  the  eastern  portion  are  the  Crags  of  which 

I  write, 
Rising  sheer  from  out  the  valley,  fearful  in  their  depth 

and  height, 

Railed  with  but  a  bar  of  iron,  just  a  mockery  it  seems, 
As  if  man,  poor   puny  mortal,  could  defy  old  Nature's 

schemes. 


96  CRADLED     MOONS 


Oft  I   wander  to  the  crag  top,  where  my  thoughts  can, 

undisturbed, 
Come  and  go  witli  rhythmic  motion,  where  my  mind  is 

not  perturbed, 
And  ensconced  within  a  cradle  made  by  shelving  rocks 

and  grass, 
There  I   rest  and  view  God's  country,  there  the  hours 

pleasant  pass. 


One   fine   day   in  balmy  June  time,  with   my  book  and 

pencil  I 
Climbed  the  rough  and  rugged  footpath  to  my  fav'rite 

haunt  on  high, 
And  'twixt  reading,  thinking,  writing,  hours  passed  and 

soon  the  sun 
Sank    behind   the    great    hill's    tower,    for   the   day    was 

almost  done. 


With  a  sigli   I   rose  and  gathered  book  and  cap  within 

my  hand, 
And    prepared    to    journey    homeward,    loth    to    follow 

Time's  command, 
When,  from  out  the  dark'ning  shadows  of  a  huge,  sharp 

balanced  stone, 
Rose   a   figure   grim   and   savage,   and   I    heard  an   eerie 

moan. 


In  my  fright  I  stood  and  trembled,  daring  not  to  move 
or  speak. 

Wild-eyed,  staring,  whilst  the  shadows  longer  grew  of 
ev'ry  peak, 

And  the  vision  viewed  me  calmly,  deigning  not  to  notice 
fear, 

Which  I  own  I  showed  a-plenty,  with  that  awful  pres 
ence  near, 


CRADLED     MOONS 


Still    I    noted,    spite    my    tremor,   that   the    form   which 

brazen  stood 
Close  before  me  \\»as   a   native  of  some  wild,  unbroken 

wood, 
Painted   cheeks,    bedecked   with    feathers,    folded    arms, 

impassioned  mien, 
Just  like  pictures  which  in  childhood  I   had  loved  and 

often  seen. 


Must'ring  courage  in  the  twilight,  I   at  last  took  heart 

and  spoke 
Words  like  these,  "Who  are  you  stranger?    Speak,  your 

presence  doth  provoke; 
Wouldst  thou  slay  a  fellow  mortal,  harmless,  weak  and 

quite  alone? 
Let  me   pass,  nor   stay   my   going,"   thus    I    spake   with 

anxious  tone. 


With   his   piercing  eye   fixed  on   me,   hideous,   uncanny, 

quite, 
Stood  he  there  as   if  unmindful  of  my  seeming  fearful 

plight, 
Then  I   heard  a  voice  which  sounded  like  the  swish  of 

rushing  wind, 
Soft   and   musical   and   soothing,  lulling   fears   I   had  in 

mind. 


With  the  first  calm  uttered  sentence  I  at  once  again  took 
heart, 

For  the  spectre  which  stood  near  me  scarcely  made  a 
move  or  start, 

But  his  voice  I  heard  distinctly,  sad  it  sounded  to  my 
ears, 

Yet  so  calm  and  withal  quiet  that  it  soothed  my  doubt 
ing  fears. 


98 


"Listen,  Pale-Face,  to  my  story,"  were  the  words  that 

greeted  me, 
"Listen,    fear    thou    not    nor    falter  ,from    the    form    of 

Ochmulgee ; 
I    was    once    a    chieftain    mighty    of    the    Narragansetts 

brave, 
And   I   ruled  these  hills   and   valleys,  here  my   wigwam 

shelter  gave. 


Long  before  your  tribe  of  white  men  entered  into  yon 
der  bay, 

Here  I  lived  and  hunted  daily,  here  the  gentle  deer  did 
slay, 

Over  where  yon  sun  is  sinkihg,  there  upon  the  highest 
hill, 

Oft  I  worshipped  the  Great  Spirit,  there  I  tried  my 
hunter's  skill. 


Many   were  the  moons   which   slowly   rose  to   view   and 

died  away, 
While  I  led  the  tribe  of  warriors  to  the  chase  and  to  the 

fray. 
Ere  these  things   which   did   befall  me,  things   which   I 

will  now  relate, 
Of    Kenabeek,    called    the    Serpent,    coward,    thief    and 

reprobate. 


I   had  maids   and  squaws   in  plenty,  but  my  heart  was 

set  upon 
Bounding  Brook,   a   gentle   maiden   whom   I   wooed  and 

whom  I  won ; 
Glad  was  she  to  join  my  wigwam,  dress  the  product  of 

my  chase, 
Build  my  fire,  fill  my  pipe-bowl,  fairest  was  she  of  our 

race. 


CRADLED     MOONS  99 


But  one  day  the  wicked,  lying  Kenabeek  came  gliding 

round 
While    I    hunted    through    yon    valley,    and    alone    the 

maiden  found, 
And    he   tried   to    steal    her    from    me,    steal   my    gentle 

Bounding  Brook, 
Force  her  to  forsake  and  leave  me,  but  the  maiden  he 

mistook. 


Up  she  flew  and  like  a  deer  sped  to  the  spot  where  I 

had  gone. 
And  she  told  me  all  Kenabeek's  lying  tongue  had  spoke 

upon, 
How  the  blood  surged  to  my  temples,  how  my  heart  was 

filled  with  hate, 
How  I  longed  to  crush  the  Serpent,  scalp  the  lock  upon 

his  pate. 


With   my  tomahawk   I   hastened,  gave  the  lying  coward 

chase, 
And   he   climbed   these   hills   and   valleys,   but   I    caught 

him  in  this  place ; 
Here  we  fought  upon  this  crag-top,  here  we  strove  with 

might  and  main, 
Blood  gushed  forth  like  spouting  water,  neither  seemed 

to  mind  the  pain. 


Suddenly,    witli    whoop    of    triumph,    I    caught    hold    of 

Kenabeek, 
And  my  waning  strength  I  mustered,  threw  him  o'er  this 

mighty  peak, 
And  I   watched  him  as  he  tumbled  into  the  great   deeps 

below 
Till  I  saw  him  dead  and  lying  where  yon  spring  doth 

ever  flow. 


100  CRADLED     MOONS 


Fain  would  I  have  then  arisen,  but  the  poison  on  the 
dart 

With  which  he  had  pierced  my  vitals  had  already  reached 
my  heart, 

So  I  sang  my  death-song  slowly  here  behind  this  bal 
anced  stone, 

Like  a  brave  and  noble  warrior,  without  murmur,  with 
out  groan. 


Ere    my    eyelids    closed    forever    Bounding    Brook    had 

searched  and  found 
Where  I  lay,  and  where  you  rested,  there  my  hurts  she 

gently  bound, 
Seated  on  the   ground  beside  me,  knowing  that   I   soon 

must  go 
To  the  land  of  all  my  fathers,  yet  her  grief  she  did  not 

show. 


Soon  my  spirit  left  the  body,  and  beneath  where  we  now 
stand, 

In  a  cave-like  hole  she  placed  me,  covered  me  with  earth 
and  sand, 

And  my  spirit  hovered  near  her,  loth  to  leave  my  Bound 
ing  Brook, 

But  the  Manitou  had  called  me,  called,  and  so  my  leave 
I  took. 


When  the  Great  and  Noble  Spirit  heard  my  tale  and 
how  I  slew 

Kenabeek,  the  lying  serpent,  and  his  body  down  there 
threw, 

Pleased  He  was  and  gave  permission  that  I  might  re 
visit  here 

This  fair  spot  as  when  I  left  it,  when  the  moons  shall 
mark  each  year. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  101 


So    to-day    you    see    me,    Pale-Face,    I,   the   great   chief 

Ochmulgee, 
And  I  would  you'd  tell  your  people  what's  been  told  you 

about  me, 
Tell  them  not  to  move  a  single  stone  from  off  this  lofty 

mound, 
Tell    them,    Pale-Face,    of    my    story,    say    that    this    is 

hallowed  ground. 


Tell  them  that  this  pile  of  granite  is  a  monument  to  me, 
That   it   marks    the    place   where    Death   came   and   laid 

hold  of  Ochmulgee, 
Tell  them  this,  and  tell  them  truly, — Hark!   I  hear  the 

Great  Chief's  cry, 
I   must  go,  farewell,  O   Pale-Face,  tell  my  tale  and  do 

not  lie." 


In  a  twinkling  of  an  eyelash  he  was  gone,  I  was  alone, 
And  the  faint  tints  of  the  twilight  proved  that  day  was 

almost  gone, 
Wondering    and    deeply    thoughtful,    I    sought    out    my 

downward  road, 
And  just   as   the   stars   came   shining   I   approached  my 

own  abode. 


To  my  study  I  then  hastened,  and  I  wrote  this  lengthy 

tale 
So  the  children  of  the  future  will  respect  that  hill  and 

vale, 
Did  just  what  the  spectre  bade  me,  not  a  word  did   I 

omit, 
And  I've  told  my  story  truly,  every  detail,  every  bit. 


102  CRADLED     MOONS 


If  you  doubt  this  story,  neighbor,  go  and  see  this  mighty 

rock, 
Climb  its   heights   and  view  the  country,  listen    to    the 

breezes  talk, 
Go  and  drink  the  pure,  sweet  water  of  the  spring  within 

the  glen, 
And  if  once  you  go,  O   neighbor,   I   am  sure  you'll  go 

again. 


THE    SPIRIT    BOUND 

I  called  to  my  soul  in  the  midnight  hour 

When  the  babel  of  tongues  had  ceased. 

And  I  thought  that  my  soul  was  free, 

For  I  sought  the  strength  that  comes  from  power 

Born  of  the  Infinite, — released 

Through  the  Spirit  Voice  to  me. 

"Bound !"  was  the  thought-flash  coming  back 
Like  the  curse  of  a  hope  that's  dead, 
Like  a  soundless  prayer  of  fear ; 
Bound  to  the  world  and  its  sins,  alack ! 
Bound  to  the  Self,  by  the  Self  misled, 
And  ruled  from  a  higher  sphere. 

Bound  to  the  past  with  its  thoughts  of  doubt, 

Bound  ,to  my  fears  with  hooks  of  steel 

Grappled  to  finite  rings ; 

Bound  to  regrets  and  shame,  without 

A  hope  save  my  Better  Self's  appeal 

To  the  God  of  eternal  things. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  103 


THE    FIRST    CALL 

I  was  wearied  to-night  from  my  quest  of  gold 

In  my  slavish,  routine  life, 
And  I  called  from  the  Silences  untold 

The  Spirit  whose  arts  were  manifold 

To  surcease  troubles  rife; 
\Vhen  lo !  from  the  deepest  wells,  behold, 

Came   a   spirit  called  Love  to  my  world   of  strife. 
While  a  restful  peace  my  heart  consoled, 

And  it's  always  near  when  my  arms  enfold 
Mv  children  and  mv  wife. 


THE    SOUNDING    BOARD 

I  stood  by  the  water's  edge,  and  the  golden  moon 
Cast  a  yellow  glaze  on  the  ocean's  breast, 
And  the  sea  and  the  moon  were  one, 
While  the  rhythmic  surf  with  its  rage  subduen 
Since  a  recent  storm,  with  the  sands  caressed, 
And  I  with  the  world  was  done. 

For  the  kissing  surf  with  its  restless  sound 

Awakened  each  sleeping  spirit  tone 

That  sings  in  a  poet's  soul, 

Thru  the   whole  world  sang,  and  the  full  moon,  round, 

W;is  the  sounding-board  in  the  Great  Unknown. 

Where  Poetry  has  its  goal. 


104  CRADLED     MOOXS 


THE    SHADOW    MEN 

I  called  to  the  Past; 

In  the  solemn  hour  of  the  mist-grey  morn, 
To  the  murk-filled  caves  of  my  nearer  soul 

I   called  again, 

When  lo !  like  a  strain  of  music  borne 
On  the  wafted  breeze,  and  with  less  control, 

Came  Shadow  Men. 

Like  clouds  amassed; 
Shadows  of  past  years  gone  for  aye, 
Charnel-mould  ghosts   with  their  shrouds   unbound, 

They  brought  me  these; 

My  childhood  joys,  my  youth,  my  down-lipped  day, 
Strong  manhood's  prime,  and  in  them  all  I  found 

Sweet  memories. 


HIS    SOUL    FLOWERS 

God  planted  the  seed,  He  nourished  the  soil, 

Eacli  soul  is  a  flower  of  Love, 
Go  gather  the  blooms,  though  you  struggle  and  toil 

In  valley  or  mountains  above; 
Each  flower  reveals  a  purposeful  plan, 

Each  petal  is  fashioned  with  care, 
The  Soul  of  the  Sower  has  blossomed  in  Man, 

His   Immortal  Spirit  is  there. 


CRADLED     MOONS  105 

IN  THE  SILENT  REACHES  OF  MY  SOUL 

Oh,  deep  in  the  shadowy  vales  that  lie 

In  the  silent  reaches  of  my  soul, 

In  thy  solitudes,  O  my  soul, 

Live  the  wraiths  of  the  Hopes  of  the  self  that  I 

Know  as  myself,  yet  unknown  to  the  whole 

Of  the  doubting,  shallow  world. 

And  when,  in  my  nature's  wearied  hours, 

I  seek  in  an  introspective  mood 

Those  cloistered  haunts  for  my  spirit's  food, 

Come    those    wraiths    at    my    call    with    their    God-born 

powers, 

And  I  am  a  god  in  a  realm  of  good, 
Unknown  to  a  finite  world. 


THE    SPIRIT    OF    MIRTH 

There's  a  merry  elf  in  my  hidden  self, 

A  sprite  witli  a  manner  droll, 
And  he  sings  at  times  with  his  ribald  rhymes 

In  the  deeps  of  the  Poet's  soul, 
\Vhen  the  skies   are   black   and  when   fears   attack. 

When  the  spirits  of  Doubt  possess, 
Comes  this  elf  to  me  witli  his  singing  glee, 

And  I  echo  his  merriness. 
With  his  saucy  quips,  and  his  whispering  lips, 

And  his  eye  with  a  spit  of  flame, 
He  domineers,  and  despite  my  years 

My  pen  puts  sense  to  shame, 
But  a  rounded  soul  needs  a  spirit  droll, 

And  I  witli  a  world  to  bear, 
Rejoice  the  while  in  his  mirthful  style, 

And  would  of  my  pleasures  share. 


106  CRADLED     MOONS 


SLUMBERING    YESTERDAYS 

Awaken  them  not,  those  sweet  days  of  the  past, 

Those  days  of  the  long,  long  ago, 
Let  them  sleep  now  in  peace,  away  from  the  blast 

And  blight  of  my  cold  winter's  snow; 
Let  the  form  of  my  youth  be  caressed  in  their  arms, 

Let  them  smile  in  their  dreams  so  free, 
For  if  they  should  awake,  then  youth's  sweetest  charms 

Would  be  flown,  and  leave — only  me. 

Awaken  them  not,  those  dear  days  I  have  lost, 

Those  days  which  do  now  seem  sublime, 
Let  them  sleep  sound  and  warm,  secure  from  the  frost. 

And  safe  in  the  arms  of  old  Time; 
Let  the  blustering  winds  and  the  lean  wolf's  fierce  cry 

Be  hushed  till  their  slumber  is  done ; 
Let  the  soft  summer  breeze  croon  a  sweet  lullaby, 

And  bring  them  a  kiss  from  the  sun. 

Awaken  them  not,  those  bright  days  that  are  gone, 

Those  days  which  I  then  valued  not. 
When  I  first  saw  the  gleam  of  their  roseate  dawn, 

Nor  gave  to  their  passing  much  thought; 
Let  them  sleep  on  and  on,  I  have  not  long  to  live. 

Why  waken  the  past  from  its  rest  ? 
The  present  I  own,  and  the  future  will  give 

Surcease  to  remorse,  manifest. 


CRADLED     MOONS  107 


THE  SADDEST  TIME— AUTUMN 

The  saddest  time  of  all  the  year  is  now,  • 

The  dying  leaves  though  clothed  with  brilliant  hue 
Bespeak  the  time  when  I  my  head  must  bow 

And  hear  the  voice  which  sayeth,  "Youth  is  through. 
The  sighing  winds  which  bare  the  quivering  limb 

Are  messengers  to  me  of  wintry  days 
Which  are  to  come,  and  seem  to  croon  a  hymn 
Like  that  old  song  so  potent  in  its  praise: 
"Now  the  day  is  over, 
Night  is  drawing  nigh, 
Shadows  of  the  ev'ning 
Steal  across  the  sky." 

The  asters  and  the  goldenrod, 

And  here  and  there  a  struggling  bloom  I  see, 
The  last  tribute  of  Summer  to  her  god 

Ere  she  assumes  Death's   fearsome  livery. 
They  cause  me  pain  where  pleasure  they  would  give, 

I  see  my  night  approach,  I  know  full  well 
That  I  on  earth  cannot  forever  live, 

I,  too,  must  sleep  as  that  sweet  song  dotli  tell: 
"Now  the  darkness  gathers, 
Stars  begin  to  peep, 
Birds  and  beasts  and  flowers 
Soon  will  be  asleep." 


108  CRADLED     MOONS 

MY    STUDY 

Four  walls  papered  blue, 
Striped  with  tints  of  doubtful  hue, 
Compass  in  my  study. 

One  chair,  style  unknown, 
Desk  and  table  all  give  tone 
To  my  humble  study. 

One  case  filled  with  books, 
Fastened  to  the  wall  with  hooks, 
College  in  my  study. 

One   French   full-glazed  door, 
Open  to  an  enrailed  floor, 
Beautifies  my  study. 

One  view  unsurpassed, 
Hills  and  dales  and  woodlands  vast, 
Nature  in  my  study. 

One  heart  God-inspired, 
All  that  is  for  me  required 
To  complete  my  study. 


THE    SPIDER 

Mountains  of  gold,  glittering  gold, 

Tempting  the  woman,  cruel  and  bold, 

Fool  that  man  was  (though  little  to  blame, 

If  our  parents  were  fools,  we  might  be  the  same)  ; 

Voice  of  the  siren,  luring  him  on 

Into  the  web  like  a  fly  to  be  shorn, 

Form  of  a  woman  almost  divine, 


CRADLED     MOONS  109 

Soul  of  a  devil  lurking  in  wine; 

Prodigal  spendthrift,  little  he  knew 

That  money  and  love  each  other  espew : 

What  though  the   spider   is   loathsome,  unclean, 

(Even  a  spider's  web  glitters  like  sheen 

When  kissed  by  the  sun  and  the  cool  morning  dew, 

And  the  spider  itself  is  hidden  from  view). 

For  the  fool's  but  a  fool,  like  the  moth  as  it  flings 

Itself  in  the  flame  where  it  singes  its  wings, 

And    the    spider's    a    fiend,   though    clothed   in    disguise, 

The  she-devil's  soul  looks  out  of  its  eyes, 

And  the  fool  never  guessed  that  money  and  pelf 

Attracted  the  woman  and  not  he  himself, 

That  when  they  were  gone,  without  tear,  without  sigh, 

She'd  cast  him  aside  like  the  shell  of  a  fly 

Which  the  spider  ejects  from  its  glimmering  nest, 

For  the  fool's  but  a  fool,  and  the  spider's  a  pest. 


THE    BLUE    WAKE 

As  the  blood-red  sun  sank  in  the  western  sky 

O'er  sultry,  summer  sea, 
And  the  hazy  mists  of  the  night  crept  nigh 

Encroaching,  silently, 
I  sat  by  the  rail  of  a  schooner's  bow 

And  watched  a  towering  ship, 
A  queen  of  the  sea,  with  her  massive  prow 

Proud  set  for  an  eastward  trip. 

And  her  decks  were  black  with  a  merry  throng, 

A   happy,   singing  crowd, 
So  calm  was  the  sea  that   I  heard  their  sonu, 

And  joyful  noises  loud, 


110  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  I  waved  my  hand  as  the  ship  sped  by, 

A  few  waved  back  at  me, 
But  my  heart  was  heavy,  I  knew  not  why, 

That  evening  on  the  sea. 


As  the  ship  sailed  by  with  its  rings  of  smoke 

Marked  cloud-like   far   astern, 
I  could  hear  the  hoarse  throat  of  a  fog-horn,  croak 

In  steady  numbered  turn; 
I  have  seen  strange  sights,  but  the  strangest  seen 

In  my  sailings  on  the  deep, 
Was  the  blue-tinged  wake  of  that  ocean-queen, 

Not  white  from  the  screw's  bold  sweep. 

And  the  blue-frothed  wake  on  that  summer  night 

Reflected  the  ruddy  gleams 
Of  the  blood-red  sun,  and  that  eerie  sight 

Still  haunts  me  in  my  dreams ; 
Then  I  called  to  the  men  of  the  schooner's  crew, 

And  I  pointed  to  the  wake, 
And  I  asked  them  why  that  froth  was  blue, 

To  a  man  I  saw  them  quake ! 


Then   the  mate  upspake  in  a  solemn  tone, 

His  eyes  with  fear  aglow, 
"Yon  ship  is  doomed,  ere  the  night  has  flown 

She  lies  in  depths  below ; 
For  sailors  know  when  the  mermaids  glean 

The  white  from  a  foaming  wake, 
'Tis  used  as  a  fringe  for  its  lustrous  sheen 

On  bridal  gowns  they  make. 


And  the  ship  they  choose  to  rob  of  the  foam 

That  gleams  so  white  and  fair 
On  its  glistening  wake,  is  chosen  as  home 

For  some  sea-bridal  pair; 


CRADLED     MOONS  111 

And  the  ghosts  of  the  men  who  are  lost  on  board 

Each  craft  that  meets  such  doom, 
Must  dance  at  the  revels  they  afford 

For  the  mermaid  bride  and  groom. 

'Tis  a  sailor's  yarn,  but  its  truth,  I  know, 

And   proved   full  many   times, 
Ere  the  sun  shall  rise  with  the  morning  glow 

The  Sea-Nymph's  wedding  chimes 
Shall  call  from  the  deep,  and  yon  vessel  is  lost; 

Mark  me !"   said  the  sailor  bold, 
'  'Tis  an  awful  price  that  such  weddings  cost, 
Yet  this  is  the  doom  foretold !" 

Then  I  looked  again  at  the  noble  ship 

Now  sailing  far  away. 
And  I  saw  the  mists  of  the  fog  engrip 

And  close  around  their  prey; 
And  the  rising  wind  from  the  east  brought  back 

Tlie  sound  of  revelry, 
But  we  shifted  sail  on  the  lee-shore  tack 

And   ran   for  the  nearest  quay. 


Oh,  that  awful  night  on  that   Irish  coast, 

'Twas  a  night  of  misery. 
When  that  proud,  proud  ship  witli  its  mighty  host 

Was  lost  in  the  raging  sea ; 
And  they  tell  a  tale  how  the  war  craft  smote 

A  hole  in  her  mighty  prow. 
How  there  was  not  time  for  to  man  a  boat, 

She  sank  like  a  rotted  scow. 


Then  I  thought  of  that  bronzed  old  seaman's  talc, 

Alas !  my  friends,  too  true. 
And  the  prophecy  at  the  schooner's  rail 

Of  the  vessel's  wake,  tinged  blue; 


112  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  I  wondered,  too,  if  some  mermaid  bride 

Wore  a  veil  of  whited  foam, 
If  she  danced  with  the  ghosts  of  the  men  who  died 

To  furnish  her  a  home. 


MY    SWEETHEART'S    EYES 

Beautiful,  laughing  eyes  of  brown, 

Filling  my  soul  with  ecstasy, 
Truly  my  sweetheart's   regal  crown, 

Rivaling  the  gentle  euphrasy. 

• 
Softly  they  search  me  through  and  through, 

Asking  this  question  earnestly, 
Tell  me,  fond  heart,  art  thou  still  true, 

Dost  thou  still  love  me  fervently? 

Beautiful,  laughing  eyes  of  brown, 
Thy  seemly  beauties  are  to  me 

E'en  when  in  sorrow  looking  down 

More  glorious  than  the  deep  blue  sea. 

Deeper  in  love  than  ocean's  deep, 
Captive  they  hold  me,  still  I'm  free 

To  live  in  love  which  I  can  keep 
Ever  my  own  eternally. 


CRADLED     MOONS  113 


FATHER 

Happy  the  man  who  bears  that  holy  name, 

Nor   lives    for   self;   who   treasures    children's    love 

Beyond  all  else ;  whose  glory  'tis  to  claim 

That  sacred  trust,  the  gift  of  God  above; 

Whose  toiling  hours  are  gladdened  by  the  kiss 

Of  baby  lips  when  days  begin  and  close, 

Who  learns  in  truth  that  man's  paternal  bliss 

Is  youth  renewed  through  that  which  youth  bestows. 

His  life  brings  joy,  though  children  presage  care, 
And  worried  brow  oft  marks  him  amongst  men, 
Though  sorrows  come  and  Time  steals  from  its  lair 
And  drags  his  loved  ones  to  its  worldly  den; 
His  greatest  joy, — sublime  when  understood, 
Is  giving  life,  sustaining  it,  and  this 
Conformable  to  God,  whose  Fatherhood 
He  but  reflects ; — his  life  a  genesis. 


IT  WOULD  BE   NICE 

To   Harold 

In  a  musing  frame  of  mind, 
Half  in  earnest,  half  inclined 
To  indulge  in  quiet  jest 
(Which  befits  my  nature  best), 
Softly   I   in  accents  mild 
Called  unto  my  eldest  child. 
Who,  with  shout  of  boyish  glee, 
Came  and  perched  upon  my  knee. 


114  CRADLED     MOONS 

Almost  six  years  have  flown  by 
Since  that  first  and  lusty  cry 
Which  announced  unto  the  morn 
That  another  soul  was  born. 
When  the  Infinite,  Divine, 
Blest  me  with  this  boy  of  mine, 
And  that  time  in  memory's  sway 
Seems  to  *me  like  vesterdav. 


And  those  eyes,  both  large  and  brown, 
Question  me  as  I  look  down, 
Wondering  what  I  will  say, 
Why  I  called  them  from  their  play. 
Oh,  they  know  not  what  I  see 
In  their  depths  of  purity, 
I  can  see  the  mother's  smile 
Reproduced  in  them  awhile. 


Scarcely  conscious  that  I   spoke, 

For  those  eyes  strange  thoughts  awoke, 

I  this  question  asked  him  now. 

As  I  stroked  his  noble  brow : 

"Tell  me,  little  brown-eyed  lad, 

If  another  child  we  had 

As  a  playmate  for  you  here, 

Would  vou  like  a  sister  dear?" 


Not  a  second  did  he  wait, 
Nor  the  least  bit  hesitate, 
Like  a  flash  upon  a  wire 
Came  this  voice  of  Love's  desire. 
And  it  seemed  as  though  it  stole 
From  my  breast  and  inner  soul 
The  same  thought  which  came  to  me 
As  he  climbed  upon  my  knee. 


CRADLED     MOONS  115 

"It  would  be  nice,"  he  sweetly  said, 
A  sublime  light  his  fac£  o'erspread, 
"If  I  could  have  my  mamma  dear 
When  she  was  just  a  girlie  here, 
I'd  like  it  awf'lly,  awf'lly  well, 
I'm  sure  I  would,"  and  I  could  tell 
By  that  sweet,  gentle,  loving  tone 
Deceit  to  him  is  yet  unknown. 

Then  I  kissed  this  little  elf, 

Mimic  of  my  better  self, 

Bade  him  run  out-doors  and  play 

With  his  brother  bright  and  gay, 

And  I  heard  the  mother  croon 

To  her  babe  a  restful  tune, 

And  though  God  has  blest  me  thrice, 

I  think  myself, — it  would  be  nice. 


I  WANT  TO  BE  SIDE  OF  PAPA 

To    .Mill on 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 

The  cry  of  my  infant  boy, 
His  heart  but  echoed  his  lisping, 

His   eyes   beamed   forth   their  joy. 

"I  want  to  be  side  of   Papa." 

'Tis  strange  how  memories  cling. 

To  the  words  our  children  utter 
Ere  they  like  birds  take  wing. 


116  CRADLED     MOONS 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 
God  bless  you,  my  sweet  child, 

On  my  knees  each  night  I  pray  Him 
To  keep  you  undefiled. 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 
That  cry  finds  lodgment  here 

As  my  timorous,  faltering  spirit 
Cries  out  to  God  so  near. 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 

And  I,  in  my  small  way, 
Can  make  my  treasure  quite  happy, 

My  baby  of  to-day. 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 

My  little  boy  knows  not 
That  the  plaintive  cry  he  utters 

Is  with  deep  meaning  fraught. 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 

O  you  who  have  strayed  from  grace, 

Return  to  your  Heavenly  Father, 
Behold  His  loving  face. 

"I  want  to  be  side  of  Papa," 
The  selfsame  cry  He's  heard 

From  many  a  child  of  sorrow, 

Though  couched  in  different  word. 

And  so,  dear  friends  who  have  suffered, 
And  troubled  ways  have  trod, 

Take  home  to  yourself  my  lesson 
And  live  more  close  to  God. 


CRADLED     MOONS  117 

A  LITTLE  OUTSTRETCHED  HAND 

To  Francis 

I'm  sometimes  very  weary, 

And  life  at  best  seems  vain, 
The  future's  dark  and  dreary, 

The  cause  I  can't  explain; 
I'm  in  that  giant's  castle 

That  Bunyan  tells  about, 
And  held  there  as  a  vassal 

Of  grim  despair  and  doubt. 

Like  pilgrims  in  his  story. 

I've  found  a  key  of  hope 
That  leads  me  into  glory, 

And  gives  me  strength  to  cope 
With  troubles  beyond  measure 

(I'm  sure  you'll  understand), 
That  key's  my  year-old  treasure 

With  dimpled,  outstretched  hand. 

When  my  day's  work  is  ended, 

And  I  come  home  to  rest, 
That  little  hand  extended 

Drives  trouble  from  my  breast. 
Despair,  with  kindred  allies, 

Is  banished  like  the  mist 
Which  flies  from  wooded  valleys 

When  by  the  sunlight  kissed. 

I  take  those  dimpled  fingers 

And  press  them  to  my  heart, 
And  in  my  thoughts  there  lingers 

The  story  they  impart. 
When  overwhelmed  with  sadness 

My  memory  I'll  command 
To  cheer  my  soul  witli  gladness 

By  baby's  outstretched  hand. 


118  CRADLED     MOONS 

A  WORTH  WHILE  THEME 
To  Paul 

As    I    sat    and    pondered,    dreaming,    vainly    searching, 

vainly  scheming 

For  a  theme  to  make  a  verse  and  rhyme, 
I   was  conscious  of  a  knocking  on  my   study  door,  and 

talking 
Not  at  all  in  chord  with  rhythmic  time. 

Just    a    baby's    voice    and    chatter,   just    a    baby's    little 

patter 

On  the  threshold  of  my  sanctum  door, 
And  I  knew  who  there  was  waiting,  who  that  racket  was 

creating, 
Though  my  children  now  do  number  four. 

And  despite  my  fancy's  pleasure,  which  delights  in  quiet 

measure 

Quite  unreconciled  to  modern  boys, 
I  got  up  and  very  gently  oped  my  door,  and  confidently 

Thought  my  frown  would  stop  that  dreadful  noise. 

/ 

But    I    reckoned   scarce   with   thinking,   for   that   rascal, 

without  shrinking, 

Gave  a  cry  of  honest,  unfeigned  joy, 
And   both   arms    he   threw    around   me,   by   my   legs   he 

tightly  bound  me, 
'Twas  my  darling  youngest  baby  boy. 

With  a  smile  his  face  was  beaming,  and  his  bright  blue 

eyes  a-gleaming 

Drove  my  frown  and  scowl  away  at  once. 
Then  I  reached  and  gently  placed  him  on  my  desk,  and 

sat  and  faced  him. 
And  I  gave  to  this  thought  utterance. 


CRADLED     MOONS  119 

"Tell  me,  little  light-haired  fairy,  where  you  got  your 

graces  airy  ? 

Why  your  eyes  are  blue  instead  of  brown 
Like  your  brothers'  who  surround  you,  like  your  mother's 

when  she  found  you? 
Whence  comes   flaxen  hair  upon  your  crown? 


Not   an   answer   did   he   make   me,   but   a   gurgle    which 

meant  "Take  me 

Off  this  desk  and  hold  me  in  your  lap," 
Then  I  pressed  him  to  my  shoulder,  kissed  his  cheek,  and 

he,  quite  bolder, 
Tweaked  my  nose  until  I  heard  it  snap. 


Next  my  moustache   was   the   pleasure   of  this   naughty 

little  treasure, 

And  that  it  was  short  I  now  gave  thanks, 
Though  perturbed  by  such  an  action  on  the  part  of  my 

attraction, 
Quite  courageously  I   bore  his  roguish  pranks. 


Like  a  flash  this  thought  came  o'er  me,  here  and  now  I 

had  before  me 

Greater  theme  than  ever  poet  had, 
All  the  knowledge   of  the   ages,   all  the  wisdom   of  the 

sages 
Were  embodied  in  this  little  lad. 


What  can  poets  add  to  learning,  other  than  a  mere  dis 
cerning 

Of  the  things  which  they  alone  have  fared? 
Here  was  one  of  God's -own  stories,  blest   with  pristine 

beauty's  glories. 
That  made  poetry  a  drivel  when  compared. 


120  CRADLED     MOONS 

In  tliis  little   blue-eyed  scion  lived  the  music  heard  in 

Zion, 

Here  were  dreams  come  true,,  and  manifest, 
Here  the  thoughts   of  the   Creator,  amplified  by  Time, 

and  greater 
Than  a  poet  ever  yet  expressed. 


In  his  smile  I  saw  the  mother,  in  his  laugh  I  heard  each 

brother, 

In  his  eyes  I  saw  myself  a  child  again, 
And  I  saw  his   forbears  living  once  again  in  him,  and 

giving 
Of  their  strength  to  prove  him  amongst  men. 


And  I  saw  the  Future  bending  to  his  will,  and  wisdom 

lending, 

I  could  see  him  mount  the  steps  of  fame, 
I  could  see  him  laurel-reaping,  while  the  sluggish  ones 

were  sleeping, 
I  could  hear  the  ages  sing  his  name. 


So  I  thought  that  in  this  blessing  was  a  theme  well  worth 

expressing, 

One  the  Infinite  had  kindly  sent  to  me, 
So  I  penned  this  bit  of  rhyming,  quite  unconscious  of  its 

timing 
Which  boots  not  as  you  will  well  agree. 


And  I  pray  that  God.  the  Master,  will  protect  him  from 

disaster, 

That  he'll  earn  and  reap  life's  greatest  joys, 
And  I'll  always  be  insisting,  nobler  themes  are  not  ex 
isting 
Than  are  found  in  loving  girls  and  boys. 


CRADLED     MOONS  121 

DISGRACE    CORNER 

In  our  kitchen  there's  a  corner  that  reserved  for  naughty 
boys, 

Who  distract  their  patient  mother  and  who  make  a  lot 
of  noise, 

There's  a  hard-backed  wooden  rocker  with  a  seat  I  im 
provised 

Out  of  rough,  unfinished  lumber*  which  is  very  much 
despised. 

Oft  it  holds  our  eldest  youngster,  who  at  times  can  be 
so  bad 

That  you  wonder  if  the  tempter  rules  and  dominates 
the  lad, 

But  an  hour  of  meditation  always  drives  that  spirit 
hence, 

And  a  child  was  never  sweeter  than  that  b^oy  in  peni 
tence. 


Eventide   may   find   the   corner   holding   fast  my   second 

son, 
Roguish,  naughty,   brown-eyed   rascal,   full  of  mischief, 

full  of  fun, 
He   gets   up    from   that   old   rocker   'most   the   same   as 

when  put  there, 
Though    repentant,   planning   ever   mischief    new   to   do 

and  dare. 


Then  the  third  boy  (just  a  baby,  three  short  years  he's 

been  on  earth), 
Sometimes   fills  the  rocker   sadly,  proving  Adam  in  his 

birth, 
It's  a  lesson,  comprehended,  though   forgotten  soon,   I 

fear, 
By  this  darling  little  cherub,  who  though  naughty  is  a 

dear. 


122  CRADLED     MOOXS 

We've  another  boy  that's  growing,  he's  not  old  enough 

to  sit 
In  that  chair,  though   oft  I'm  thinking  he  deserves   to 

every  bit, 
Such  a  jolly  little   shaver,  large  blue  eyes  and  smiling 

face, 
It   would   seem   a   shame   to   put   him   in   the   corner   of 

disgrace. 

That    old    corner    lias    a    virtue    not    apparent    from    its 

name, 
Though  its  mission  is  correcting,  it  deserves  a  teacher's 

fame, 
For   upon   the   wall   which   makes   it  hangs   a   map   with 

every  tint, 
Ruled  and  lined  and  filled  with  letters,  towns  and  cities 

marked  in  print. 

And  for  lack  of  other  interest,  culprits  who  oft  fill  that 

spot 
Learn   to   spell   out   all   the   letters   which   the   printers 

there  have  wrought, 
And  if  nothing  else  comes  from  it,  should  it  not  correct 

the  base, 
There's  a  secondary  value  to  this  corner  of  disgrace. 


CRADLED     MOONS  123 


POLLIKINS 


Dear  little  Pollikins ; — what  a  strange  name 

To  give  to  a  cherub  so  sweet, 
We  christened  you   Paul  and  there's  someone  to  blame 

In  thinking  it  was  incomplete ; 
You  laugh  and  you  crow,  you  smile  and  you  cry, 

Your  arms  and  your  feet  ne'er  are  still, 
There's  mischief,  I   think,  in  each  blue  little  eye, 

And  evidence,  too,  of  a  will. 

You  are  not  the  first  little  treasure  to  come, 

We've  had  several  more,  it  is  true, 
But  never  you  mind,  we  know  you  have  some 

Sweet  charms  which  belong  just  to  you; 
Your  dear  little  self  has  a  place  of  its  own 

In  our  hearts  quite  as  big  as  the  rest, 
For  babies  are  kings  and  you  now  share  the  throne 

Which  Love  has  set  up  in  our  breast. 

A  tyrant  you  are  and  at  times  you  demand 

A  servitude  common  to  slaves, 
Your  wants   are  unknown,  but  we  understand 

All  the  things  which  a  baby  king,  craves ; 
The  slightest  of  sounds  from  your  powerful  lungs 

Impels  us  to  jump  to  your  side, 
With  kisses  and  hugs  and  with  silvery  tongues 

We  attempt  to  make  you  subside. 

But  'tis  seldom  you  frown,  and  seldom  you  weep, 
The  most  of  the  time  vou're  so  dear 


124  CRADLED     MOONS 

That  often  we've  said  we  would  just  like  to  keep 

This  baby  with  us  always  here ; 
But  that  cannot  be,  for  babies  must  grow, 

That  is  part  of  the  Infinite's  plan, 
And  the  time  will  soon  come  when  the  darling  we  know 

As  Pollikins  will  be  a  man. 

THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  SUNSHINE 

The  first  kiss  of  sunshine  this  morning  came  to  me, 
'Twas   not   from   gleaming  sunrise   from  out  the   ruddy 

sea, 

Nor  yet  the  golden  flashes  o'erspreading  purple  lea, 
A  sweeter  kiss  was  mine,  then,  than  any  such  could  be. 

'Twas  when  I  rose  and  tiptoed  my  way  to  baby's  bed 
And  touched  his  flaxen  ringlets  soft  resting  on  his  head, 
And    saw    his    blue    eyes    open,    their    radiant    glances 

spread, 

And  felt  his  arms  around  me,  and  kiss  from  lips  rose- 
red. 

I've  always  called  him  .Sunshine  the  name  is  apropos, 
He  lightens  darkened  hours  in  ways  he'll  never  know, 
His  smile  reflects  the  brightness  that's  in  the  sun's 

warm  glow, 
And  melts  the  coldest  nature  as  summer's  warmth  melts 

snow. 

I  would  you'd  see  my  Sunshine,  you'd  envy  me  my  joy, 
You'd  understand  my  rapture,  Love's  gold  without 

alloy, 
You'd   know    the   depths   of   meaning   in   names   that    I 

employ 
In  speaking  of  my  treasure,  my  little  Sunshine  boy. 


CRADLED     MOONS  125 


BARBEE 

• 

Who  is  Barbee?     What  sort  of  a  thing 
Is  saddled  with   such  a  strange  name? 

It  has  a  heathenish  kind  of  a  ring, 
And  sounds   like  a  parlor  game. 

I  hear  it  each  morn,  I  hear  it  eacli  night, 

It  comes  from  the  voice  of  one 
Whose  face  is  lit  up  with  Love's  purest  Ifght, 

My  dear  little  three-year-old  son. 

A  smile  on  his  lips  and  a  gleam  in  his  eye, 

A  twinkle  which  tells  even  me 
That  mischief  is   rampant  whenever  he's   nigh 

And  utters  the  name  of  Barbee. 

I  ask  him  at  times  which  one  he  loves  best, 

And  ever  and  always  I  hear 
That  strangest  of  names  he  calls  with  a  zest, 

'Tis  Barbee  that  he  holds  most  dear. 

Now,  who  is   Barbee?      I   asked  him  one  day, 

And  great  indeed  was  my  joy 
To  hear  this  treasure  of  mine  sweetly  say, 

"Papa's   Barbee, — ^Me  Barbee's  boy." 

Oh  happy  the  man  who  owns  such  a  name 
That  is  coined  from  the  depths  of  love, 
Which   only   in  children   is   found  just  the   same 
As  lives  in  God's  heaven  above. 


126  CRADLED     MOOXS 


KING    ROBERT 

There's  a  king  in  our  house,  and  we  bow  to  his  crown 
Despite  every  boast  of  Democracy,  free, 

No  ermine  he  wears,  nor  purple  his  gown, 
Yet  still  he  is  king  over  mother  and  me. 

His  place  is  secure,  though  dynasties  fall, 

And  yet  like  a  tyrant  he  reigns  from  his  throne, 

An  absolute  monarch,  we  dance  at  his  call, 
Nor  dare  to  refuse,  t>r  his  service  postpone. 

We   call   him   King   Robert    (though   his   name's    Robert 
James), 

But  little  he  cares  for  his  titles  of  state, 
He  accepts  them  as  due,  and  his  manner  proclaims 

That  they  are  his  right,  and  admit  no  debate. 

Of  course  you  have  guessed  who  King  Robert  must  be, 
And  why  we  are  proud  to  serve  in  his  train, 

He's  the  baby  that  came  to  mother  and  me 
And  added  a  world  to  our  familv  domain. 


MY    BABY'S    LIPS 

My  baby's  lips  can  reach  my  hand, 

O  baby,  baby  mine; 
They  steal  the  sting  from  reprimand 
And  contravene  each  stern  command, 
I'm  helpless,  for  I  can't  withstand 

Those  lips,  O  baby  mine. 


CRADLED     MOONS  127 


Your  rosy  lips  were  made  to  kiss, 

O  baby,  baby  mine ; 
But  not  my  hand  as  armistice 
When  punished  for  some  deed  remiss. 
Though  when  you  win,  to  lose  is  bliss, 

Kiss  on,  O  baby  mine. 


THE    MEASURES    OF    LOVE 

There's  something  I've  discovered, 

Yes,  heretofore  unknown, 
Where  Love's   sweet  spirit  hovered 

No  boundaries  had  been  shown, 
But  I  have  found  its  measures, 

There  many  are  I've  learned, 
'Twas  through  my  baby  treasures 

Its  limits  I  discerned. 

With  their  weak  arms  around  me, 

And  their  cheeks  pressed  to  mine, 
Love's  boundaries  all-surround  me, 

Their  childish  hearts  my  shrine, 
And  though  Love  is  restricted 

Through  bounds   formed  by  their  art. 
If  ever  it's  evicted 

'Twould  break  this  father's  heart. 

With  playful  spirit  o'er  me 

I  asked  each  little  boy 
How  much  the  love  he  bore  me, 

These  terms  they  did  employ, 
One  stood  with  arms  extended, 

And  lips  pursed  for  a  kiss. 
(His  eyes  sweet  love-lights  blended), 

And  said,  "As  much  as  this." 


128  CRADLED     MOONS 


Another  climbed  my  shoulder 

And  whispered  in  my  ear 
So  none  but  I,  his  holder, 

Could  the  sweet  answer  hear, 
"As  much,  my  papa,",  said  he, 

"As  this  big  house  can  hold. 
That  much,"  and  all  doubts  fled  me, 

I  knew  his  love  was  gold. 


My  third  boy,  brown-eyed  sweetness, 

With  similes  but  few, 
Told  of  his  love's  completeness 

As  only  he  could  do, 
His  arms  held  me  so  tightly, 

I   felt  my  heart-strings  pull, 
"This  much,"  he  answered  lightly, 

"A  hundred  baskets  full." 


And  last  of  all,  my  baby, 

Dear  blue-eyed  "Sunshine"  boy, 
Who  loves,  but  knows  not,  maybe, 

Analogies  of  joy. 
He  answered  me   (and  dared  to). 

I  laughed,  as  you  will  now, 
Love's  size  to  him,  compared  to 

A  great  big  mooly  cow ! 


And  so  I  know  Love's  boundings, 

Though   heretofore  unknown, 
Its  ocean's  deepest  soundings 

Are  mine,  and  mine  alone, 
The  cow,  the  house,  the  baskets. 

And  arms  outstretched  above, 
Are  jewel-holding  caskets, 

A  Universe  of  Love. 


CRADLED     MOONS  129 


THE    PRICE   WE    PAY 

The  price  we  pay  for  babes  is  toil, 

The  slavish,  thankless  kind, 
From  rising  sun  till  night  we  moil 

A  constant,  ceaseless  grind ; 
The  arms   that  circle   round  our   necks, 

The  kisses  sweet  and  pure, 
Are  paid  for  in  the  toil  that  wrecks 

And  brings  age,  premature. 

Is  it  too  much, — this  price  we  pay, 

Are  such  investments  good? 
Come,  see  them  at  the  close  of  day, 

My  darling  little  brood, 
Each  figure  snuggled  close  in  bed, 

Five  pair  of  eyes  shut  tight, 
And  you'll  agree  when  all  is  said 

The  price  we  pay  is  light. 

A  NOBLE  THOUGHT. 

A   noble  thought 

Hath  oft-times  wrought 
A   deal   more   than   a   deed   could   do, 

For  know  you  not 

Each  noble  thought 
Becomes  in  time   a  part  of  you. 


JLOU 


MY  LADY'S  MORNING  SONG 

The  morning  breaks ;  the  golden  light  disperses  dimming 

stars 

Reluctant  yet  to  go, 
I  rise  to  greet  the  glorious  sight,  the  vari-tinted  bars 

From  Dawn's  resplendent  glow, 
And  ere  I  comprehend  the  scene,  the  splendors  of  the 

morn 

Now  speeding  on  its  wings, 
I  hear  the  voice  of  Morning's  queen  along  the  soft  winds 

borne ; 
My  Lady  sweetly  sings. 

The    flight-song    of    the    fleet-winged    bird,    the    purple 

martin's  lay, 

Though  sweet,  is  naught  beside 
The   melody   and  strains   I've   heard,   my   Lady's   hymn 

to  Day, 

'Tis  music  glorified, 
A   miracle   of   sound   that   fills    my    soul   with   raptured 

bliss, 

And  echoes  in  my  heart, 
Each  note   entrances   me,  and  thrills,   I   waft  to   her  a 

kiss; 
My  tribute  to  her  art. 


MY   LADY'S   WITCHING   DANCE 

On  with  the  dance.      My  Lady  swings 
Her  graceful  form  to   rhythmic  time, 

Nor  heeds  the  passing  hour ; 
Her  arm,  undraped,  she  outward  flings 
In  wondrous,  joyful  pantomime, 

Oh,  witching,  witching  power : 
Amazed,  I  watcli  her  as  she  glides, 
Her  gyral  motion  casts  a  spell 

And  holds  me  fast  and  still, 
As  light  as  fairy  queen  she  rides, 
No  woodland  nymph  could  e'er  excel 
.    My  dancing  Lady's  skill. 

On  with  the  dance.      My  Lady  leads 
My  heart  a  merry,  merry  chase, 

And  I,  proud-willed,  declare 
I'll  follow  her  o'er  grassy  meads, 
O'er    mounts,    snow-capped,    where    brooklets    race 

And  catch  her  in  Love's  snare; 
No  more  shall  doubts  my  heart  beset, 
No  more  shall  fears  of  loss  be  rife, 

Nor  dizzy  race  be  run; 
But  she  and  I  shall  pirouette 
Along  the  rose-strewn  paths  of  life. 

No  longer  twain,  but  one. 


132  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY  LADY'S  PRETTY  NAME 

"Sweetness"  is  my  Lady's. name, 

Tribute  to  her  graces, 
Love  she  kindles  into  flame 

By  her  warm  embraces ; 
Sweet  her  smile,  her  laughing  eyes, 

Sweeter  still  her  kisses, 
And  to  me  such  name  implies 

Love,  and  all  its  blisses. 

"Sweetness"  is  my  Lady's  name, 

Homage  to  her  paying, 
Cheeks  that  blush  rose-red,  proclaim 

More  than  tongue  is  saying; 
Sweet  her  laugh,  its  liquid  notes 

Fill  my  soul  with  pleasure, 
And  to  me  such  name  denotes 

Love's  celestial  treasure. 


CRADLED     MOONS  133 


MY  LADY  OF  THE  VIOLIN 

My  Lady  sits  in  idle  pose 
With  violin  soft  pressed 

By  hands  of  love ; 

Her  face,  a  dream  bespeaks,  and  glows 
With  softened  light  that  doth  attest 

To  source  above, 

And  on  that  light,  methinks  the  soul 
That  haunts  each  vibrant  string 

Doth  sit  enthroned, 
And  whispers  harmony  it  stole 
From  tunes  the  angel  choirs  sing 

With  raptures  toned; 
My  Lady,  my  sweet  Lady. 

Pray,  sing  me,  mistress  of  my  heart, 
The  music  whispered  thee 

On  streaming  light, 
I  would  in  mystic  rhythmic  art 
From  Heaven's  fount,  thy  genius  see, 

Oh,  rich  delight! 
Mayhap  the  raptures  of  thy  bow 
Will  Hood  my  nascent  soul 

With  love-born  bliss, 
And  it,  attuned  with  thine,  shall  know 
The  music  of  our  Heavenly  goal, 

And  twain  shall  kiss  : 
My   Lady,  my  sweet   I. adv. 


134  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY  LADY'S  WONDROUS  HAIR 

I  sometimes  think  I'm  on  the  brink 

Of  old  age,  and  its  care, 
But  my  old  heart  reflects  youth's  art 

Depicted  in  your  hair; 
'Tis  wondrous,  Lady  mine. 
Yes,  wondrous,  Lady  mine. 

I  fear  me  quite,  if  such  delight 

Were  mine  long  to  behold. 
My  years  would  fly,  and  soon  would  I 

Again  as  youth  be  bold; 
What  wonder,  Lady  mine, 
No  wonder.  Lady  mine. 

Some  roses  blown  have  often  shown 

Attraction  for  the  bee, 
My  years,  I  trust,  have  not  grown  rust, 

Perchance  there's  hope  for  me, 
What  say  you,  Lady  mine, 
Say  "Hope,"  sweet  Lady  mine! 


CRADLED     MOONS  135 


MY  LADY'S  GLEAMING  GEMS 

My  Lady's  decked  with  gleaming  stones, 
Her  lovely  neck  and  arms,  when  bare, 
Are  fitting  settings   for  the  rare 
And  costly  jewels  that  she  owns; 
Her  pearls,  inchained,  that  beautify, 
Are  rivaled  by  my  Lady's  tears, 
Her    opal's    fire   disappears 
When  matched  with  glances  of  her  eye. 

I  would  I  owned  the  Indies  old, 

If  jewels  give  my  Lady  joy, 

An  ungauged  fortune  I'd  employ 

To  shower  her  with  gems  and  gold; 

But  all  the  precious  stones  of  Earth, 

If  gathered  in  a  mammoth  pile, 

Would  seem  but  dross,  and  not  worth  while 

To  me,  beside  my  Lady's  worth. 


136  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY  LADY  AND  THE  CRYSTAL  GLOBE 

Deep  in  the  depths  of  the  crystal  globe 

What  see  you,  Lady  fair? 
Why  seek  Life's  mysteries  to  probe, 

Wouldst  read  thy  future  there? 
What  portents  flushing  cheek,  and  fire 

Spite-flashed  from  cruel  eye? 
Art  robbed  therein  of  heart's  desire? 

Canst  thou  thy  fates  descry? 
Spurn  not  them,  Lady  fair ! 
Spurn  not  them,  Lady  fair! 

See,  in  the  spectrum's  azure  flame 

Before  you,  Lady  fair, 
The  cryptic  marking  of  a  name 

Linked  close  with  thine, — beware ! 
The  divination  of  each  line 

Within  yon  crystal  ball, 
Thou  knowst  doth  prove  thy  life  and  mine 

Are  linked  for  once  and  all ; 
Spurn  not  me,  Lady  fair ! 
Spurn  not  me,  Lady  fair ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  137 


MY  LADY  WITH  THE  DROOPING  ROSE 

My  Lady's  young,  my  Lady's  fair. 

Her  lips  are  like  the  drooping  rose, 
And  soft  and  silken  is  her  hair, 

Her  smile  so  sweet,  that  if  she  chose 
To  charm  away  my  dark  despair 

With  one  such  boon,  my  night  would  close ; 
My  Lady,  Oh  my  Lady. 

My  Lady's  young,  my  Lady's  sweet, 

No  nectar  of  ambrosial  brew 
In  sweetness  with  her  can  compete, 

The  richest  wine  of  ruddy  hue 
Compared  to  her  is  incomplete 

And  tasteless  as  the  summer  dew; 
My  Lady,  Oh  my  Lady. 

My  Lady's  young,  my  Lady's  proud, 
She  rules  my  heart  with  iron  hand, 

No  arrant  knave  was  e'er  as  cowed 
As  I,  when  treading  Cupid's  land, 

My  anxious  heart  doth  beat  so  loud 

I  fear  the  world  will  understand ; 

My  Lady,  Oh  my  Lady. 


138  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY  LADY  GOES  TO  CHURCH 

When  Sabbath  comes,  and  holy  calms 

O'erspread  the  busy  marts, 
My  Lady  shows  her  regal  charms 

In  raiment's  studied  arts; 
And  with  the  chimes  of  music  sweet 

That  peal  from  lofty  perch, 
She  treads  the  paths  of  righteous  feet,- 

My  Lady  goes  to  church ! 

In  high-backed  pew,  with  saintly  mien, 

And  eyes  on  book  of  prayer, 
My  Lady  with  a  halo's  sheen 

Appears  an  angel  there; 
And  I,  a  chief  'mongst  sinning  men, 

And  marked  by  worldly  smirch, 
Do  feast  my  eyes,  and  follow,  when 

My  Lady  goes  to  church ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  139 


MY   LADY   IN   THE   FIRE-LIGHT 

I  see  the  Lady  of  my  dreams, 

My  night's  dreams,  my  day's  dreams, 

She's  sitting  in  the  fire-light, 

The  ruddy,  flickering  fire-light, 

Her  shimmering  hair,  spun-gold  it  seems, 

Reflects  the  charring  logs'   red  gleams, 

The  softened  shadows  of  the  night 

Add  eerie  charms  to  lover's  sight, 

For,  from  her  eyes  where  flame-jets  dart, 

Like  those  within  the  fire's  heart, 

Methinks  a  cherub's  soul  dotli  shine, 

Unlike  the  mortal  soul  of  mine, 

And  in  the  painting  fire's  art 

She  seems  an  angel's  counterpart, 

Effulgent  with  a  light  divine 

That  burns  the  inner  soul  of  mine, 

Which  worships  my  sweet  Lady. 


140  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY    LADY    SLEEPS 

My  Lady's  form  is  bathed  in  light 

From  Luna's  blue-tinged  beams, 
Her  pallid  face,  like  marble  white, 

Betrays  no  earthly  dreams, 
Her  slender  hands,  'midst  folds  of  lace, 

Press  softly  on  her  breast, 
The  sunshine  day  to  night  gives  place, 

My  Lady  now  doth  rest. 

Sleep  sweet,  O  Lady  mine ! 

My  Lady's  couch  is  banked  witli  flowers 

And  garlands  strewn  around, 
The  offerings  of  the  dew-kissed  hours 

Where  innocence  is   found; 
Her  fingers  clasp  a  drooping  rose, 

A  bud  of  purest  white, 
An  emblem  of  her  soul's  repose, 

A  tear-drop  of  the  Night. 

Sleep  well,  O  Lady  mine ! 

My  Lady's  room  is  peopled  o'er 

With  angels  sweet  and  fair, 
A  train  surge  through  her  latticed  door, 

And  far  aloft  they  bear 
The  richest  treasure  ever  borne, 

My  heart  in  silence  weeps, 
The  moon  gives  way  to  blushing  morn,- 

And  still  my  Lady  sleeps. 
Sleep  on,  O  Lady  mine ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  141 


MY  LADY  IS  MY  DREAM  GIRL 

My  Lady  is  my  dream-girl, 
My  dream-girl,  my  dream-girl, 
A  phantasy  of  mind  awhirl, 
A  bubble  on  love-streams  that  purl 
O'er  beds  where  gold  doth  gleam ; 
I  see  her  in  the  Morn's  blush, 
The  Morn's  blush,  the  Morn's  blush, 
I  hear  her  in  the  migrant  thrush, 
In  rippling  brooks   'neath  woodland  brush, 
My  Lady's  but  a  dream. 

My  Lady  lives  in  Dream  Land, 

In  Dream  Land,  in  Dream  Land, 
With  elfs  and  sprites  on  golden  strand, 
Herself  a  queen  of  phantom  band 
Who  rules  o'er  all,  supreme ; 

I  would  I  were  an  elf-man, 

An  elf-man,  an  elf-man, 
A  member  of  my  Lady's  clan, 
Her  king  in  realms  elysian; 

My  Lady's  but  a  dream. 


14-2  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY    WISTARIA    GIRL 

I  walked  a  charming  bit  of  country  road 

Not  long  ago,  that  lay 
Betwixt  the  city  and  my  town  abode, 

'Twas  warm,  indeed,  that  day. 

I  rested  on  a  rough  stone  wall  beside  a  welcome  spring 
And  listened  to  a  Bob-white  call ;  I  whistled,  answering 
The  noisy  bird. 

And  then,  so  soft,  I  heard  a  sweeter  sound 

Come  trilling  back  to  me. 
No  echo  that,  I  knew,  no  feathered  warbler  'round 

Could  matcli  such  euphony. 

And  I, — I  stood  transfixed  a  moment  with  delight 
Enraptured  by  that  cry,  "Bob  White,  Bob  White," 
'Twas  that  I  heard. 

I  gazed  around,  and  there  close  to  the  street 

I  saw  a  drooping  vine, 
Rich  with  its  purple-tinted  blooms,  and  sweet 

With  perfume,  scenting  fine 

The  gentle  summer  breeze.     It  ran  o'er  trellised  bower 
Hiding  the  lattice  work  complete — each  drooping  flower 
Like  stalactites. 

Half  hidden  close  beside  that  flowered  screen 

A  maiden  stood,  with  face 
As  fair  as  any  I  in  life  had  seen, 

And  regal,  artless  grace 

Her  figure  bore;  her  auburn  locks  contrasted  tints 
Of  softened  greens  and  lilac,  catching  glints 
Of  summer  lights. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  143 

A  simple  gown  of  pink,  a  flowing,  untrimmed  dress 

Enhanced  exquisite  charms, 
A  pensive  face,  of  wondrous  comeliness, 

A  goddess  ne'er  had  arms 

So  ravishingly  white ;  one  hand  extended  grasped 
A  trellis  brace,  the  other  gently  clasped 
A  spiral  bloom. 

I  met  her  eyes,  my  soul  leaped  from  its  bound, 

Those  liquid  depths  bespake 
Such  pleasant  isles,  ship  "Reason"  ran  aground, 

No  light-buoys  mark  Love's  lake ; 

Her  cherry  lips  were  sweetly   pursed — a  human   mock 
ing-bird 

Was  she,  "Bob  White"  the  Lorelei  that  I  heard 
Had  sealed  my  doom. 

One  smile  she  gave,  one  roguish,  witching  smile, 

And  said,  "A  simple  joke, 
My  Bob-White  call." — So  artless,  free  from  guile 

And  musical  she  spoke, 

Methought  that  Pan  had  taught  his  golden  pipes  to  her 
As  he  had  taught  Apollo  how  to  stir 

Each  wind-blown  reed. 

I  wonder — Was  the  wistaria's  strong  scent 

Of  opiatic  kind, 
That  froze  my  tongue,  and  virulent 

Had  stupified  my  mind? 

I  answered  not,  'twas  sacrilege  for  me  to  speak 
To  one  divine, — I  stood  there,  abject,  weak, 
Nor  dared  proceed. 

An  understanding  nod,  then  like  a  flash 
Of  sun  on  silvered  glass 


144  CRADLED     MOONS 

She  rushed  away. — I  heard  the  water  plash 

Against  the  stones,  the  grass 
Beneath    my    feet,    no    longer    soft,    seemed    toughened 

brake, 

No  rustic  charm  was  left,  no  spring  could  slake 
My  love-thirst  drear. 

I've  planted  vines  beside  my  cottage  door, 

Wistarias  so  sweet; 
I  dream  of  her,  I  see  her  there  once  more, 

My  picture's  incomplete. 
It  lacks  her  voice,  her  smile,  her  eyes  with  mischief's 

light, 

But  when  I  hear  at  times  a  shrill  "Bob  White," 
Somehow — she's  near. 


FAREWELL 

'Tis  sad  to  part 

When  in  each  heart 
Such  tender  recollections  lie, 

But  this  we  know, 
Where'er  you  go, 

Our  love  for  you  shall  never  die. 

And  from  above 

We  pray  God's  love 
To  guide  you  in  your  future  way ; 

The  good  you've  done, 
The  hearts  you've  won, 

Are  living  memories  of  your  stay. 


CRADLED     MOONS  145 


TWO    LETTERS 
First  Letter,  Asking  Advice  on  Matrimony: 

My  Dearest  Friend  Charles: — 

I  am  writing  this  letter 
To  you  as  a  friend,  and  also  as  debtor 
Who's  beholden  to  you  for  favors  you've  done 
In  years  of  the  past  which  so  swiftly  have  run, 
And  I  thought  that  perhaps,  if  you  would  permit, 
I'd  just  ask  another  for  my  benefit. 
I'm  about  to  embark  on  that  uncharted  sea 
Which  is  known  by  the  name  of  Matrimony, 
And  I  wish  you  would  write  in  a  true  lover's  way 
A  couple  of  verses  for  my  fiancee. 

Her  charms  are  so  many  I  could  not  tell  all, 
And  the  name  she  is  known  by  is  sweet  Bertha  Hall. 
Her  smile   is   quite   witching,  her  laughing  eyes   gleam, 
And  her  lips  and  her  cheeks  are  just  peaches  and  cream. 
Her  beautiful  tresses  are  fluffed  with  such  care 
I  think  I  could  love  e'en  the  puffs  in  her  hair. 
Her  voice  is  like  Melba's,  so  full  and  so  clear, 
My  heart  seems  to  burst  with  its  music  and  cheer, 
And  she  has  the  cutest  and  tiniest  feet, 
There  never  were  ankles  so  pretty  and  neat. 
She  plays  the  piano  with  wonderful  care, 
You'd  listen  entranced  to  "The  Maiden's   Prayer." 
If  you  could  but  see  her,  I'm  sure  you'd  agree 
That  sweet  Bertha  Hall  is  the  darling  for  me. 

So,  Charles,  please,  please  write  a  cute  little  rhyme 
Which  will  tell  of  the  charms  of  this  sweetheart  of  mine, 
And  maybe,  perhaps,  you  can  give  advice 
About  married  life  which  will  help  and  suffice. 
From  a  married  man's  standpoint,  I  wish  you'd  tell  me 
If  I  marry  what  think  you  the  harvest  will  be? 

Please  write  me  at  once,  if  you  have  a  pen, 
Believe  me,  I   am. 

Your   dearest   friend 


146  CRADLED     MOONS 


Second  Letter 

A  Homily  Addressed  to  a  Prospective  Bridegroom 

I  have  something  to  say 

As  I  write  you  to-day, 
It's  to  tell  you  that  I've  had  a  call 

To  be  a  great  poet. 

There's  a  young  amoret 
Who's  in  love  with  a  lady  named 'Hall. 

I've  not  had  the  pleasure 

To  meet  this  sweet  treasure. 
There's  reason  for  this  cogitation. 

As  I  write  these  few  lines 

My  poor,  lonely  heart  pines 
To  journey  to  her  habitation. 


Because   I  did  marry 

Don't  think   I   am  chary 
Of  adoring  the  girls  large  and  small. 

Although    I'm   not   a   saint. 

In  this  wish  there's  no  taint, 
I   would  that  I   knew  this   Miss  Hall. 


Now,  my  dear  old  friend  N- 
I've  seen  prettier  men, 


To  be  handsome,  your  legs  are  too  thin. 

But  while  this  fact  is  true, 

I'll  just  leave  it  to  you. 
With  the  women  you  certainly  win. 

About   your  fiancee 

You  have  little  to  say, 
Is  she  built  on  the  lines  of  a  doll? 

Are  her  eyes  blue  or  brown? 

What's  the  style  of  her  gown  ? 
Is  she  handsome — your  charming  Miss  Hall? 


CRADLED     MOONS  147 

And  I  think  you  did  say 
A  piano  she'd  play. 

That  her  voice  was  like  Melba's  in  tone. 
Well,  now,  isn't  it  nice, 
You'll  both  save  the  price 
Of  a  no-money-down  graphophone. 

Married  life's  not  all  joy, 

To  its  bliss  there's  alloy, 
From  love's  raptures  we  all  have  to  fall. 

Can  your  sweetheart  bake  bread? 

Are  her  biscuits  like  lead? 
Do  you  know  how  to  darn,  Bertha  Hall? 

Can  your  dear  'girl  sew  stitches 
On  the  seat  of  your  b — (trousers)  ? 

Will  she  crease  your  pants'  legs  on  the  side? 
Can  she  lug  coal  and  wood 
As  a  modern  wife  should? 

And  is  snowy  white  linen  her  pride? 

Say,  can  you  build  a  fire 

Without   raising   your  ire? 
Do  you  know  how  to  ward  off  a  squall? 

Maybe  you'll  be  loath 

To  have  to  do  both, 
Have  you  yet  had  a  scrap  with  Miss  Hall? 

Now,  is  it  your  bent 

To  grumble  at  rent? 
Will  you  at  the  grocery  man  curse? 

Or  will  you  raise  the  deuce 

When  the  servants  vamoose, 
And  kick  when  you  need  a  trained  nurse? 

Do  you  cnrr  for  a  baby, 
Or  several,  maybe  ? 
Can  you  walk  them  around  when  they  bawl? 


148  CRADLED     MOONS 


When  your  little  girl  cries. 
Will  you  tell  pretty  lies  ? 
Will  you  say,  "You're  a  darling,  Miss  Hall?' 

Can  you  eat  beans  on  Sunday, 

And  again  upon  Monday, 
And  chew  hash  all  the  rest  of  the  week? 

Have  you  learned  how  to  laugh 

When  your  sweet  better  half 
Feeds  you  eggs  that  are  somewhat  antique  ? 

Will  you  go  on  a  bat 

When  you  pay  for  a  hat 
In  spring,  summer,  winter  and  fall  ? 

If  your  wife  needs  some  shoes 

Will  you  then  get  the  blues, 
And  be  cross  at  your  dear  Bertha  Hall? 

On  a  clear,  frosty  morning, 

When  day  is  just  dawning, 
Do  you  mind  getting  up  in  the  cold? 

If  you  miss  a  train, 

Will  your  wife  be  to  blame? 
Will  you  give  her  your  money  to  hold? 

Can  you  hunt  for  a  sample 

And  be  an  example 
Of  a  married  man's  nerve  and  his  gall? 

If  there's  dress  goods  to  match 

Will  you  act  like  "Old  Scratch"  ? 
Can  you  hook  up  a  dress  for  Miss  Hall? 

Now  I  do  not  disparage 

Nor  make  fun  of  marriage, 
In  fact,  I'm  a  much-married  man. 

The  aim  of  this  letter 

You'll  see  when  you  get  her. 
I  desire  to  help  .all  I  can. 


CRADLED     MOONS  149 


To  you,  my  old  friend, 
My  best  wishes   I  send. 

There  is  nothing  like  love,  after  all. 
In  true  love  there  is  more 
Than  this  world  has  in  store, 

So  be  happy  with  your  Bertha  Hall. 


THE  SPIRE  OF  SHAWMUT  CHURCH 


Behold,  it  stands 

Four-square  to  the  world,  with  a  conscious  pride 
In  its  structural  strength,  and  its  form  beside, 
Proud  of  the  Thought  on  the  builders'  part, 
Proud  of  the  soul  'neath  the  mason's  art, 
Pointing  the  way  with  its  five  capped  peaks 
To  the  higher  realms  that  the  pilgrim  seeks, 
Standing  like  guard  o'er  its  faitli  sublime, 
With  a  fine  contempt  for  the  march  of  Time, 
Seeing  the  fruits  of  the  Christ-'riched  soil, 
Proving  the  Seed  and  the  Sowers'  toil, 
Emblem  of  love  and  of  sacrifice. 
Bulwark  against  every  onslaught  of  vice, 
Memory's  shaft  for  the  immortal  dead 
Who  trod  the  same  paths  that  the  living  now  tread. 


Worthy  art  thou,  O  Spire  of  God, 

To  stand  until  Gabriel's  trump  sounds  abroad, 

Hurling  the  shame  of  the  little  souls  back 

Who  shiver  and   fear  in  adversity's  track, 

Deeming  it  strength  to  bow  to  defeat, 

And   doubting  the   God   that  their   weak   hearts' entreat. 

Seeing,  yet  blind  with  the  s.cales  of  desire 

Uncleansed  by  an  effort  to  save  or  acquire. 


150  CRADLED     MOOXS 


We  who  now  stand  in  thy  shadow  can  see 
The  Light  from  above  that  is  .smiling  on  thee, 
And  we  take  hope. 


THE    SKY    IS    AWAKE! 

Suggested  by  a   little   child,  icho,  seeing  the  first  blush 

of  the  dawning  day,  aicak'ens  his  mother  icitJi 

the  cry,  "Mamma,  the  sky  is  atcake!" 

Out   of   the  mouths   of  babes   come   words   with   wisdom 

fraught, 
The  eyes   of  a   child  have  seen  the  light  of  a   dawning 

thought, 
The  sky  is  awake,  awake,  and  the  beams  of  the  rising 

sun 

Reveal  on  cerulean  blue  a  Promised  Day  begun; 
A  day  when  the  hopes  of  men  have  fruited  into  life. 
A    day    when    a    brother's    hand    replaces    a    stranger's 

strife, 

A  day  when  the  tides  of  youth  are  impelled  by  an  im 
pulse  strong 

To  beach  on  a  common  shore  the  wreckages  of  Wrong. 
A  day  when  the  bonds  of  race,   and  the   blood-marked 

bpunds  of  State 
Are  lost  in  the  Heart  of  God  and  the  Love  that  knows 

no  hate. 

Oh,  the  sky  is  awake,  awake, — rejoice  O  Soul  of  mine! 
And  open  thine  eyes,  my  Heart,  and  welcome  the  glad 

sunshine. 
The  sky  is  awake,  awake,  O  World  with  your  burdened 

care, 
Rejoice  with  the  poet's  child  o'er  your  Day  of  Promise 

fair,        • 
And  awake  with  the  glory  sky  ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  151 


SANDY    ISLE 


When  the  south-wind  comes  a-bringing 
Springtime  birds  so  sweetly  singing 

All  the  while, 

Then  there  comes  upon  me  stealing 
Quite  a  restless,  anxious  feeling, 
And  my  memory's  revealing 

Sandy  Isle. 


I  can  s^e  the  tall  pines  standing 
Like  a  guard  as  if  commanding 

Rock  and  pile, 

And  I  hear  the  constant  flapping 
Of  the  water  gently  lapping 
Golden  sands  which  are  enwrapping 

Sandv  Isle. 


I  can  see  the  mountains  ranging, 
Grand,  majestic  and  unchanging 

Mile  on  mile, 

How  I  often  used  to  wonder 
If  Dame  Nature  made  a  blunder 
When  she  cut  from  them  asunder 

Sandv  Isle. 


I   have  plucked  the  sweet  mayflower 
In  each  leafy,  hidden  bower 

And  defile, 

I  have  heard  the  bees  intoning, 
And  I've  listened  to  the  moaning 
Of  the  trees  which  are  enthroning 

Sandv  Isle. 


152  CRADLED     MOONS 


I  have  seen  the  moon  bestrewing 
Its  fair  beams  the  lake  a-wooing 

With  a  smile, 

From  your  shores  I've  seen  the  gleaming 
Sunset's  brilliant  colors  streaming 
On  the  waters  that  lie  dreaming, 

Sandv  Isle. 


I  have  heard  the  Storm  God  raging 
As  if  he  were  then  presaging 

Your  exile, 

I  have  watched  the  lightning  flashing, 
And  I've  heard  the  thunders  crashing. 
I  have  seen  the  waters  lashing 

Sandy  Isle. 


Now  the  south- wind  seems  to  taunt  me, 
And  these  recollections  haunt  me 

And  beguile, 

Urban  joys  on  me  are  palling, 
There  is  little  left  enthralling, 
For  I  hear  your  voice  a-calling 

Sandy  Isle. 


THE  PASSENGER  COACH  OF  LIFE 


I'm  riding  along  in  Life's  passenger  coach, 

Drawn  by  the  engine  of  Time, 
I'm  noting  the  scenes  as  each  mile  I  approach 

And  marking  the  most  sublime. 


CRADLED     MOONS  153 


I'm  drowsy  at  times  with  the  roll  of  the  train, 

I'm  counting  the  minutes  fly 
Till  my  journey's  complete  and  I  shall  attain 
The  land  of  the  bye-and-bye. 

And  the  engine's  bell  is   ringing,  ringing, 
Hear  its  metal  tones  a-singing,  singing, 
As  the  wheels  of  Time  are  bringing,  bringing 
Me  towards  home. 


Companions  I  have,  in  Life's  passenger  coach, 

But  few  that  will  sit  with  me, 
For  most  are  afraid  that  their  rights  I  encroach 

If  I  speak  familiarly. 
They  are  all  engrossed  with  the  scenes  on  the  way, 

We've  rode  through  many  a  land 

Where  Youth  reigned  supreme  in  the  height  of  its  day, 
And  joy  was  on  every  hand. 

Still  the  engine's  bell  is  ringing,  ringing, 
Hear  its  metal  tones   a-singing,  singing, 
As  the  wheels  of  Time  are  bringing,  bringing 
Me  towards  home. 


The  journey  I've  made  in  Life's  passenger  coach 

I  can  never  make  anew, 
And  oft  on  the  trip  doth  my  soul  bear  reproach 

And  chide  for  things  lost  to  view. 
Oh,  I  wish  that  I  could  retrace  every  rod, 

And  see  every  sight  once  more, 
Ere  my  sojourn's  at  end  in  the  City  of  God 
On  the  golden  shining  shore. 

But  the  engine's  bell  is  ringing,  ringing, 
Hear  its  metal  tones   a-singing,  singing, 
As  the  wheels  of  Time  are  bringing,  bringing 
Me  towards  home. 


154  CRADLED     MOOXS 


LINES   TO  A  GROTESQUE   INKSTAND 

Who   fashioned  thy   form. 

Thy  hideous  shape, 
With  face  like  a  fiend, 

.  With  feet  like  an  ape, 
With  animal  legs 

Growing  out  of  thy  head, 
And  a  sinister  leer 

O'er  thy  countenance  spread? 

What  manner  of  man 

Could  conceive  such  a  bowl 
As  a  holder  of  ink  ? 

Was  he  lacking  in 'soul? 
Were  esthetic  forms 

Overdone  or  passe 
That  he  should  have  schemed 

To  cast  thee  this  way? 

Perchance  this  foul  fiend 

Who  once  dodged  Luther's  ink, 
Inspired  thy  lines, 

And  his  motive  I  think, 
To  prove  that  he  lives 

As  of  yore,  and  to  lure 
The  poor  poet's  mind 

From  such  thoughts  as  are  pure. 

I've  wondered  at  times 

Why  my  pen  -seemed  possessed 
To  write  bitter  things, 

And  why  I  was  obsessed 
By  unholy  thoughts 

Of  a  cynical  trend, 
Which,  penned  by  my  hand, 

Grieved  alike  foe  and  friend. 


CRADLED     MOONS  1.55 


I  see  now, — 'twas  thou 

Who  hadst  guided  my  pen, 
A  grave  waits  for  thee 

In  the  depths  of  my  den, 
Thou  canst  grin  if  thou  willst 

But  the  brass  of  thy  soul 
Shall  not  enter  mine 

To  bewitch  and  control. 


THE   COUNTRY  GRAVEYARD 


Close  beside  the  winding  highway, 

Part  on  hill  and  part  on  dale, 
Lres   the   peaceful   country   graveyard, 

Where  the  calms  of  Death  prevail; 
By  its  gray-tinged  gleaming  headstones, 

Blanched   by   moonlight's   rays   to   white, 
Sway  the  long  and  unkempt  grasses 

Bowing  to  the  breezes  light. 


Many  stones  have  settled  deeply, 

Some  are  slanted,  as  if  they 
Braced  themselves  to  stand  the  weary 

Years  which  come  and  pass  away; 
Some  have  fallen  and  lie  buried 

In  the  grasses' tangled  maze, 
Seen  by  none  but  feathered  pryers, 

Who  indifferently  gaze. 


Nothing  melancholy  seems  here, 
For  the  sun  with  gladsome  light 

Shines  on  hill  and  dale  in  splendor, 
And  the  stars  peep  out  at  night 


156  CRADLED     MOONS 


As  if  they  were  friendly  creatures 
To  the  ghostly  Time-marked  stones, 

While  the  green  things  grow  unconscious 
Of  the  haunts  of  crumbling  bones. 

Though  the  low-fenced  yard  may  hold  sac 

Memories  for  those  who  still 
Go  there  weekly  with  sweet  posies 

To  mark  graves  upon  the  hill, 
Yet  for  most  of  us, — mere  passers, 

Naught  invites  nor  doth  suggest 
Of  the  painful  thoughts  which  surely 

Sears  the  souls  with  grief  possessed. 

There  are  no  walks  quite  so  pleasant 

In  the  hours  of  afternoon, 
Or  in  soft  and  golden  moonlight, 

As  these  haunts  where  mem'ries  croon ; 
No  depression,  but  sweet,  peaceful, 

Calm  and  beauty  doth  enthrall, 
E'en  the  clouds  which  float  above  it 

Seem  to  soothe  the  cares  of  all. 

Somehow,  few  can  sense  the  graveyard, 

Or  appreciate  its  charm, 
Long  have  vulgar  superstitions, 

Morbid  customs  done  it  harm ; 
But  to  those  of  us  who  love,  it 

There  is  nothing  grewsome  here. 
All  is  cheerful  calm  and  pleasant, 

Naught  to  inculcate  a  fear. 

Just  a  book,  a  friend,  or  mayhap 

Pad  for  sketching,  is  delight 
In  the  quaint  old  country  graveyard 

With  its  gleaming  stones  of  white: 


CRADLED     MOONS  157 


And  I  think  if  Dead  were  conscious 
They  would  not  refuse  to  share 

Rest  with  undisturbing  mortals 

Who  perchance  might  frequent  there. 

There's  a  charm  about  the  graveyard, 

Peace  mysterious,  divine, 
And  the  antique  stones  have  truly 

Lent  me  thoughts  with  grandeur  fine; 
And  no  simple  joys  or  pleasures 

Can  profane  Death's  symbols  rife, 
Any  more  than  laughing  breezes, 

Or  the  blue-bird's  happy  life. 

Yes,  I  love  the  country  graveyard, 

Somehow,  it  has  seemed  to  me 
That  its  spirit  breathes  a  lesson 

Which,  when  heeded,  makes  men  free; 
Free  from  fear,  and  free  from  worry. 

For  the  peace  Death  typifies 
Is  that  peace  which  passeth  knowledge 

Of  God's  home  bevond  the  skies. 


THE   SEEDLING  THOUGHT. 


Only   a   fractional  percent 

To  brook  the  powers  of  night, 
Only  a  few  from  Heaven  are  sent 

To  lead  the  way  to  light, 
Only   a   speck   in   a   mighty   realm, 

A  sprout  of  an  infant's  tooth. 
But  God !  what  a  power  to  overwhelm 

The  enemies  of  Truth. 


1.58  CRADLED     MOONS 


Only  a  fractional  percent, 

A  seed  on  the  winds  of  Time, 

But    its    shell-like    form   clasps    a    continent 

Which   shall   spring   from   the  muck   and   slime, 
Only  a  joke  to  the  pampered  few, 

A  laugh  to  their  coward  serfs, 
Let    the    minions    crow    with    their    soul-pledged    crew 

Who  are  civilization's  scurfs. 


Only  a   fractional   percent, 

Let  the  powers  that  rule,  beware, 
Lest  through  this  streak,  Life's  firmament 

Bursts   forth  in  one  bright  glare, 
Lest   the    shackles    fall    from    a   slavish   race, 

Lest  the  fears  of  Fear  depart, 
Lest   the   rust   eats   through   Wrong's   metal,   base, 

And  gold  shines  from  man's  heart. 


Only    a    fractional    percent, 

The  strength  of  a  new-born's  hand 
Is   ever  a  source   of  wonderment, 

None   ever   can   understand ! 
And,  like  the  babe,  the  gauge  of  its  might 

Is   found  in  its  grip,  it  clings 
Witli   firmness   to   Truth,   and   holds   to  the   right. 

And  courage  to   weakness   brings. 

Only  a  fractional  percent, 

Yes, — but    the    leaven    that    moves 
The   sluggish   to   rise,   and  the   Cause    foment, 

And  ever  its  spirit  proves, 
Sneer  if  you  will,  ye  who  cling  to  the  past. 

Teach    if   you    must    age-cursed    rot. 
Wallow   in   doubts   which   like   fog-banks    are   massed, 

But — Watch    out    for    the    Seedling    Thought ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  159 


THE  MEASURE  OF  LIFE. 


The  measure  of  life  i.s  Service, 

The  gauge  of  our  God's  final  test, 
The  proof  of  the  Master  within  us, 

The  justified  life  at  its   best; 
The  note  of  sincerity's  being 

Which  rings  like  a  vessel  of  gold, 
The  force  of  a  brother-man   feeling 

That  proves  men  were  cast  in  God's  mould. 

The  measure   of  life  is   Service, 

The   unselfish   service    for   man, 
Reflecting  that  finer  devotion 

Evinced  in   Divinity's   plan; 
That   plan   for   transcendent   conception, 

Which  gave  to  us  earth-born  its  all, 
And  loosened  the  knot  of  Sin's  tying 

That  long  held  our  race  in  its  thrall. 

The  measure  of  life  is  Service, 

The  portion  you  mete  shall  be  yours, 
There's   a    good   and   a   bad   compensation, 

'Tis   one   of    Eternity's    laws ; 
There's   joy   to  be  had   in   the  doing 

Of  Service  which  may  come  your  way, 
Regrets   make   a  mark  on  the   future 

Should  Service  not  measure  vour  dav. 


160  CRADLED     MOONS 


AU    REVOIR,    MISS    JO 

Must  you  go,  Miss  Jo? 

Must  you  go  and  sail  the  sea 
To  a  place  that's  far  from  me, 
Leaving  only  thoughts  of  thee, 

Must  you  really  go? 

Ere  you  go,  Miss  Jo, 

Tell  me,  have  you  one  regret 
Leaving  those  you  here  have  met. 
Would  you  cancel  friendship's  debt 

Ere  you  go,  Miss  Jo? 

As  you  go,  Miss  Jo, 

Will  the  thoughts  of  days  now  past 
Cheer  you  on  the  ocean  vast, 
Tell  me,  will  our  friendship  last, 

As  you  go,  Miss  Jo? 

Where  you  go.  Miss  Jo, 

Are  there  friends  who'll  be  as  dear 
To  you  as  the  friends  left  here? 
Do  you  think  they'll  be  sincere 

Where  you  go,  Miss  Jo? 

When  you  go,  Miss  Jo, 

When  you  take  your  last  farewell, 
Say  some  word  which  will  dispel 
Sorrow  without  parallel 

Which   I  know,  Miss  Jo. 

Why  you  go,  Miss  Jo, 

You  alone  can  answer  best, 
I  have  no  right  to  protest. 
But  you'll  pardon  this   request, 

Don't  go,  Miss  Jo. 


CRADLED     MOONS  161 


THE  CLICK  OF  THE  WIELDED  PICK 

Oh,  I  like  to  list'  to  the  wielded  pick 

As  it  strikes  against  the  stone, 
For  the  rhythm  of  song  is  in  every  click 

And  sweet  is  its  metal  tone, 

And  sweet  is  its  metal  tone. 

Oh,  it  sings  a  song  of  labor  and  toil, 
Of  sinew  and  sturdy  brawn, 

Of  the  human  ants  who  struggle  and  moil 
Like  slaves   from  the  early   dawn, 
Like   slaves    from   the   early   dawn. 

Oh,  it  tells  of  things  that  are  soon  to  be, 

Of  conflicts  great  and  small, 
Oh  it  tells  of  life  and  its  dignity 

And   the    future    for   us    all, 

And   the    future    for   us    all. 

Oh,  it's  two  sharp  tines  rend  the  earth  in  twain, 
And  they  point  the  way  to  gold, 

Were   everything   lost   then   the    pick    again 
Would   restore   a   hundred   fold, 
Would   restore   a   hundred   fold. 

Oh,  I  like  to  list  to  the  wielded  pick 

•    As  it  strikes  against  the  stone, 
For  the  rhythm  of  song  is  in  every  click 

And  sweet  is   its  metal  tone, 

And  sweet  is  its  metal  tone. 


162  CRADLED     MOONS 


TO  MR.  FORBES-ROBERSTON 
Interpreter  of  the  Beautiful  Character  of 

"THE    PASSER-BY" 
These  lines  are  respectfully  inscribed. 


It  is  somewhat  like  painting  the  lily, 

Or   scenting  the   violet  blue, 
To  add  to  the  sweetness  and  beauty 

Of  thoughts  which  are  portrayed  by  you. 


CRADLED     MOONS  163 


I. 


THE    WANDERER. 

I  am  a  wanderer.     Lo,  the  Son  of  Man 

Had   neither  home  nor  place  to  lay  his  head. 
But  ever  weary,  footsore,  weak   and  wan 

He  traversed  o'er  the  fields  and  roads  that  led 
Unto  the  city  of  the  holy  ark, 

Healing  the   sick   and  giving  sight  to  those 
Whose   vision   from  their   birth   was   ever   dark; 

He  was  a  wanderer  until  life's  close. 

0  you  who  act  the  Christ  upon  life's  stage 
And  teach  by  inference   His  subtle  thought, 

1  pray  that  in  this  dark  and  sordid  age 

Your    play    will    teach    the    world    what    Christ    has 

taught ; 
That  you  may  ope  the  eyes  of  inner  sight 

Which  view  the  soul  that  God  has  given  men, 
And  by  the  virtue  of  that  holy  light 

Redeem  each  soul  with  purity  again. 


II. 


WILFUL    WOMEN. 

Women  are  wilful,  and  the  kindest  are 

Truly  the  wilfulest.     'Twas  always  so. 
For  e'en  in  my  poor  home  my  brightest  star 

Which  in  life's  darkest  spots  reflects  its  glow 
And   guides   me   towards   that   goal    I    long   have   sought 

Hath  seemed  at  times  so  wilful  in  its  way 
That   I   rebelled  and  wandered  in  my   thought 

As  madly  as  careens  the  owl  in  day. 


164  CRADLED     MOONS 


I   fain  would  choose  and  choose  for  self  alone, 

And  choosing  thus,  have  stumbled  oft  and  fell, 
And  only  by  the  light  of  love  that  shone, 

Though  wilful,  have   I   saved  my  soul   fiom  hell. 
For  I  have  learned  that  woman's   wilful  mind 

Bespeaks    a   deep   and  underlying  plan 
Which   elevates,   ennobles   human-kind 

And  makes  me  for  the  nonce  a  better  man. 


III. 


REFLECTED     BRIGHTNESS. 

Where'er  you  are,  if  so  be  that  you  will, 

Your  very   presence   shall  the  world   make  bright, 

And  where  before,  each  face  foreboded  ill, 
A  smile  shall  rest  of  peace  and  glad  delight. 

Your  very  coming  serves  to  make  hope  real, 
•  Your  going  leaves   a  sorrowed  prayer  behind, 

The  meanest  soul  in  all  the  world  shall  kneel 
To  pray  the  Lord  to  bless  you  and  your  kind. 


I  seem  to  see  from  out  the  poet's  eyes 

The   places   where   you've   left  your  gladsome   cheer, 
Where  hitherto  were  dark  and  lowering  skies, 

The  sun  of  happiness  shines  bright  and  clear. 
I  see  the  stolid  faces  of  the  past 

Re-kindled  with  the  light  of  God's  own  love. 
I  hear  His  voice  from  out  the  heavens  vast 

Declare  again  that  you  were  born  of  love. 


CRADLED     MOONS  165 


PLEASANT   THOUGHTS. 

It  will  be  pleasant  when  old  age  shall  come 

And  leave  its  imprint  on  life's  closing  day, 
When  I,  like  other  mortals,  shall  succumb 

To  Time's  strict  mandate,  and  at  last  obey 
Dame    Nature's   laws,   immutable,   severe, 

For  me  to  gaze  in  retrospective  view 
Upon  the  time  when  I  was  with  you  here 

And  think  that   I,  perhaps,  was   help  to   you. 

Oh   Time   whose   majesty's   enthroned   for   aye 

Can  ne'er  remove  the  good  which  we  have  done. 
Eternity  with  all  it  means  shall  die 

Ere  one  such  deed  shall  fade  like  setting  sun, 
And  memdry   shall  be   forever  bright, 

And  treasured  shall  that  thought  forever  be, 
That   while,   perhaps,    I    helped    you   in   the   right, 

You,   my   friend,   in   obedience   helped   me. 


V. 


MIDDLE    AGE. 


Sometimes  I  think  life's  best  is  middle  age, 

When  the  poetry  of  youth  and  prose  of  years 
Are   written   both   together   on   life's   page, 

When  youth  impetuous  is  checked  by  fears, 
When  childhood  dreams   are   realized,  or   forgot, 

When  first  there  comes  a  glimpse  of   Heaven's  plan, 
A  realization  of  that  sublime  thought, 

The   Infinite  made  manifest  in  man. 


166  CRADLED     MOONS 


When  gilded  halls  attract  not  more  than  do 

The  sombre  naves  of  cloisters  reared  to  God, 
When  pity,  love,  and  thoughts  that  they  imbue 

Have   taught  us    to   respect  the   chastening   rod; 
When  love's  synonymous  with  God  and  truth, 

When  Hope  shines  to  us  like  a  glittering  star. 
Then  middle  age,  the  salf-way  time,  gives  proof 

To  me  at  least  that  it  is  best  by  far. 


VI. 


What  light  and  air  are  to  the  things  which  grow, 

What    rain    is    to    the    parched    and    heat-dried    field. 
So  in  each  life  is  humor  which  we  know 

Though  only  few  its  pointed  shafts  can  wield. 
It  adds  unto  our  daily  lives  a  zest, 

Gives  piquancy  to  e'en  the  sluggish  thought. 
It  is  delightful  when  it  is  at  best, 

And  makes  its  master  by  the  world  besought. 


I   sometimes   wonder  if  the  angels   use 

This   sixth  sense  of  the   finite,  earth-born   soul, 
And  if  at  times  they  e'er  have  deigned  to  choose 

To  notice  wit  which  seems  to  us  so  droll. 
I  wonder  if  the  Calvinistic  hell 

Has   funny   sprites   who  makes   its   inmate's   lot 
A  cheerful  one,  in  spite  of  where  they  dwell, 

By  humorous  quips  of  some  Icelandic  spot. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  167 


VII. 


JOYS    OF    LIFE. 

It's  a  fine  thing  to  live  and  to  give  life, 

By   that,   I   mean  to  make  your   other  self 
(Whom   you've   acknowledged   to   the   world  as   wife 

And  set  above  all  thought  of  gold  or  pelf), 
See  in  your  presence  all  the  hopes  of  years, 

Read  in  your  eyes  your  love  and  all  love  means. 
Cherish  the  words  with  which  you  dry  the  tears 

Which  often  on  the  face  of  woman  gleams. 

It's    a    fine   thing   to    live,   and   when   life's    setting   sun 

Fades  like  the  last  blush  o'er  the  western  hills. 
When*  gold  and  red  give  place  to  sombre  dun. 

When   ocean   deeps   have   swallowed  shallow   rills, 
Then  will  the  joys  of  life  be  judged  in  truth, 

Then  will  you  know  that  life  you  gave  to  her 
Was  the   foundation  of  eternal  youth, 

Which  waits  for  you  beyond  the  sepulchre. 


VIII. 

THE    TRUEST    LOVE. 

In  the  world's  book  so  full  of  vulgar  things 

Which  tell  of  love,  some  dying  and  some  dead. 
It  is  most  pleasant  to  find  one  that  rings 

As  true  in  age  as  when  on  youth  it  fed. 
It  is  to  me  like  a  Utopian  dream 

By   some   strange   chance   made   real   and  manifest. 
I  read  in  it  a  glorious  anthem's  theme, 

Which  only  can  be  sung  by  Heaven's  blest. 


168  CRADLED     MOONS 


For  truest  love  sees  in  the  withered  flower 

A  beauty  which  it  owned  when  first  it  grew, 
Protects   it   from   the   fierce   and   sudden   shower, 

And  bathes  its   sweetness   in  the   autumn  dew. 
And  though  there's   many   a   promise  broken, 

And  the  world's  book  lias  many  pages  torn, 
I   have  seen  some  whose  love  gives  every  token 

Of  being  just  as  true  as  when  'twas  born. 


IX. 


THE     GUIDING     HAND. 

Nothing,   friends,  is   more   beautiful  to   me 

Than   love  which   weathered  all  the   storms   of  life 
And  still  sails  smoothly  on  a  pleasant  sea, 

Nor   dreads   the   spots   with   storms    and   billows   rife. 
For,  like  a  ship  with  white,  outstanding  sail, 

Timbered    with    oak    and    sturdy,    well-wrought    keel, 
It  fears  not,  cares  not,  for  the  fiercest  gale 

When  love,  its  guiding  hand,  is  at  the  wheel. 

No  fog  shall  cloud  its  glistening,  shining  wake, 

No  storms  shall  bend  each  sturdy,  knotted  mast. 
No  rocks  nor  shoal  their  toll  of  lives  shall  take, 

It  bids  defiance  to  the  icy  blast,  *• 

And  like  a  white-winged  bird  of  peace  it  goes 

From  port  to  port,  and  in  a  quiet  way 
It  spreads  its  sweetness  like  a  blushing  rose, 

And  proves  that  love,  when  true,  has  strength  to  stay. 


CRADLED     MOONS  169 


X. 


THE    PERFECT    LOVE. 

The  love  of  the  young  for  the  old  and  gray, 

When  reverence  and  honor  and  all  they  mean 
And  deference  that's  due  to  age  we  pay, 

Is   life's   beginning.      But  there's   more,   I   ween, 
Than  that  sweet  love, — the  love  of  old  for  old. 

Ah !  that,  my  friends,  bespeaks  eternity. 
There   is   no   dross,   but  only   purest  gold, 

'Tis  moulded  out  in  perfect  symmetry. 

No  tinkling  cymbals  make  its  presence  known. 

No  vaunting  boast  like  sounding  brass  is  there, 
But  a   pure  love  that  has   for  years  been  grown 

And  needs  no  voice  its  accents  to  declare. 
For  when  that  love  which  perfect  is  shall  come, 

Then  that  which  is  in  part  shall  pass  away, 
And  love  of  old  for  old  completes  life's  sum, 

That  is  the  perfect  love, — for  that  we  pray. 


XI. 


THE    MEETING    PLACE    OF    FRIENDS. 

The  meeting  place  of  friends,  I  have  heard  tell, 

Is  in  the  home,  the  school,  the  busy  mart, 
But  would  you  know  where  all  true  friendships  dwell? 

The  meeting  place   of  friends   is   in  the  heart. 
No   friendship's   real  unless  the   heart  extends 

Its   cordial   welcome   to   its   friendly  guest, 
And  there  should  never  be  a  thing  'twixt  friends 

Which  would  prevent  its  offering  the  best. 


170  CRADLED     MOONS 


For  friendship's  like  a  tree  which  grows  and  grows, 

Whose  roots  are  fed  by  Heaven's  gentle  rain, 
And  every   drop   of   friendly   rain   that  goes 

Into  its  roots  renews  its  life  again. 
And  no  heart  is  too  small  to  hold  a  place 

For  every   friend  and  keep   each   place   apart, 
So,  friends,  this  thought  from  memory  ne'er  efface, 

The  meeting  place  of  friends  is  in  the  heart. 


XII. 

OLDEN     THOUGHTS. 

I  love  to  talk  of  old  tilings  and  old  times, 

Old  books,  old  friends,  old  manners,  and  beguile 
The  passing  hours  with  the  olden  rhymes, 

Review  the  vagaries  of  each,  ancient  style, 
And  like  the  poet  of  an  age  that's  gone 

My  days  among  the  dead  are  often  passed. 
I  see  the  mighty  minds  of  old  shine  on, 

Their  lustre  ne'er  bedimmed  nor  e'er  out-classed. 


For  in  those  old  thoughts  we  but  live  again, 

And  what  is  life  but  simply  doing  o'er 
The  old  time  things  with  all  their  joy  and  pain, 

And  modern  wisdom  is  but  ancient  lore. 
Eternity,  when  summed  up,  means   but  this; 

There  is  no  old,  there  is  no  new,  and  youth 
\\lirn  touched  by  Time's  regenerating  kiss 

Receives   a  vision  of  eternal  truth. 


C  HADLK1)     MOOXS  171 


XIII. 

LOVE    GOES    ALL    THE    WAY. 

I   summoned  my  two  servants,  both  were  strong, 

And  bade  them  take  two  packs  I  fain  would  send 
Upon  a  journey  that  was  very  long, 

And  leave  them  at  the  hearthstone  of  my   friend. 
One  servant's  name  was   Love,  the  other,   Duty, 

Alike  in  some  respects,  in  others  not. 
Love  was  fair  and  garlanded  in  beauty, 

While  Duty  looked  severe  witli  anxious  thought. 

They  started  off  upon  the  rugged  road, 

I  watched  them  as  they  climbed  the  lofty  hill. 
Each  bravely  bearing  up  the  heavy  load, 

Eacli   looked   as   though    his   task    he   would    fulfill. 
But,  ere  they  reached  the  scraggled  mountain's  top, 

Poor  Duty  fell  and  quit  to  my  dismay. 
And  then  I  knew  when  Love  refused  to  stop, 

"Duty  so  soon  tires — Love  goes  all  the  way." 


XIV. 

HOPE. 

It  is  the  helpless  and  the  fallen  soul 

That  holds  within  its  depths  nobility, 
And  we  should  with  its  sin  and  griefs  condole 

And  learn  each  good  and  noble  quality  ; 
For  no  man  falls   so  low  upon  this   earth 

But  what  some  great  and  lasting  good  he  owns, 
And  when  the  Christ  in  him  has  found  its  birth 

The  evil  sins  and  thoughts  it  soon  dethrones. 


172  CRADLED     MOONS 


The  greatest  men  of  all  the  times  were  those 

Who   sinned  repeatedly   and   often  fell, 
And  yet  when  Christ  Himself  in  them  arose 

They  saved  their  souls  from  out  the  depths  of  Hell. 
For  often  sin  and  shame  are  born  where  love 

Has  found  no  opportunity  to  show 
Its  God-like  attributes  drawn  from  above, 

Nor  chance  has  had  its  kindnesses  to  know. 


XV. 


THE    MISSION    OF    ART. 


O,  ugliness  is  but  skin  deep,  young  man, 

And  art  its  duty  is  to  help  reveal 
The    beauteous    thought   which    underlies    God's    plan 

Which  He,  Creator,  thought  best  to  conceal. 
The  chestnut  burr  is  rough  and  sharp  with  thorns, 

Yet  holds  a  sweet  and  tasty  meat  within ; 
The  sweetest  spirit  often  times  adorns 

The  heart  that's  hidden  'neath  an  ugly  skin. 

And  though  the  sculptured  marble  oft  proclaims 

A  beauty  lacking  in  the  living  man, 
The  sculptor's  honest  when  his  chisel  aims 

To  interpret  God's  divine,  noble  plan. 
As  Nature,  when  an  earthquake's  force  is  spent, 

Oft  leaves  great  things  before  our  wondering  gaze 
In  treasures  of  a  very  large  extent, 

So  art  should  paint  the  inner  beauty's  ways. 


CRADLED     MOONS  173 


XVI. 

THE    GREAT    PRIVILEGE. 

It  is  a  great  privilege  to  be  deemed 

Worthy  to  suffer  for  some  great  cause  or  good, 
And  only  righteous  men  are  so  esteemed 

That  they  are  chosen  from  the  common  brood. 
The  idle,  indolent,  indifferent  kind 

Are  never  asked  to  .bear  the  brunt  of  toil, 
Nor  do  they  ever  gain  immortal  mind 

Or  reap  the  best  fruits  of  the  tiller's  soil. 

And  Christ  Himself  has  been  the  guiding  star 

Of  those  who've  suffered  long  and  patiently, 
And  they  hav»  looked  with  hopeful  eyes  afar 

To  that  fair  land  which  ever  theirs  will  be; 
And  though  at  times  the  pain  and  grief  they  bear 

Seems  to  o'erwhelm  them  in  life's  darkened  room, 
They  ne'er  should  be  bowed  down  by  dark  despair, 

For  angels  gladly  would  their  tasks  assume. 


XVII. 

REGENERATING    THOUGHT. 

The  thought  of  youth  it  is  that  shall  remake 

The  old  world  into  one  of  youth  again, 
And  in  that  thought  all  care  we  shall   forsake 

And  age  and  such  things  ne'er  will  burden  men. 
For  youth  is  but  the  springtime  of  our  life, 

When   hills   are   green   and   skies   are  clear   and  blue, 
And  age  to  man  seems  naught  but  care  and  strife, 

With  lowering  clouds  which  hide  the  sun  from  view. 


174  CRADLED     MOONS 


And  when  those  thoughts  possess  and  cheer  the  heart, 

There'll  be  no  age,  for  youth  will  be  supreme, 
And  all  will  be  just  springtime's  counterpart, 

And  God's  own  sun  of  happiness  will  gleam. 
The  world  itself  is  countless  ages  old, 

And  still  is  young,  for  aeons  yet  shall  speed 
Ere  it  shall  die  and  all  its  days  be  told, 

And  age,  if  there  be  age,  shall  come  indeed. 


XVIII. 

• 
ALTRUISM. 

Some  people  think  the  ego  that's  in  all, 

Witli  selfish  thoughts  and  motives  that  they  make, 
Predominates  in  man  since  Adam's  fall 

And  no  pure,  altruistic   instincts  wake. 
Because,  since  man  to  man  is  oft  unjust, 

Since  princes  wear  the  ermine  and  the  gold, 
Since  beggars  feed  upon  the  husk  and  crust, 

They  can  no  generosity  behold. 

But  there  are  many  fellows  whom  I  know 

Are  generous  and  kind,  and  always  share 
With  all  the  world  what  Heaven  doth  bestow, 

And  do  it  with  a  tact  and  talent  rare. 
And  it's   this   type  of  men  that   doth  belie 

The  cynical  and  narrow  minded  kind, 
They  give  their  all  with  smile,  nor  reason  why. 

And  leave  all  thought  of  self  and  gain  behind. 


CRADLED     MOONS  175 


XIX. 

THE     LOWLY     JEW. 

So  many  of  the  noblest  men  I've  known 

Whom   I   have  loved,  were  Jews,  by  all  revered, 
Men  in  whose  simplest  actions  have  been  shown 

To  live  in  truth  the  faith  in  which  they're  reared; 
Whose  ancestors  were  richly  blest  by  God, 

Who  were  by  Abraham  and  Moses  led, 
Who  o'er  that  beauty-land  of  promise  trod, 

Who  were  by  Heaven's  bounteous  manna  fed. 

Theirs  is  a  race  so  rich  in  deed  and  name, 

That  I,  poor  scribbler  of  this  verse,  would  say 
That  oft  I  hang  and  hide  my  head  in  shame 

To  think  that  some  their  ignorance  display, 
And,  since  the  world  condemns,  reviles   and  scorns, 

Have  persecuted,  drove  from  place  to  place, 
The  lowly  Jew. — And  He  Who  wore  the  thorns, 

Who  gave  His  life  for  all,  was  of  this  race. 


XX. 

LOVE'S     OFFERING. 

What  does  my  lover  offer  me?     Wealth?     No, 

But    poverty    and    struggles,   hopes    and    fears. 
And  pain  and  joy;  a  life  where  love  will  grow 

Triumphant  o'er  the  swiftly  passing  years; 
A  home  where  love  shall  reign  supreme,  and  hope 

Is  ever  manifested  in  our  lives, 
Whose  very  presence  gives  us  strength  to  cope 

With  trouble  and  the  things  on  which  it  thrives. 


CRADLED     MOONS 


What  does  my  lover  offer  me?     Life?     Yes, 

A  life  of  peace,  where  Love  and  God  both  reign, 
Where  each  one  strives  in  honor  to  possess 

The  noble  things  a  better  life  would  gain. 
Wliere  parentage  is  held  to  be  divine, 

Where  baby  voices  laugh  and  crow  in  glee, 
Where  love  is  looked  on  as  a  blessed  shrine, 

These  are  the  things  my  lover  offers  me. 


XXI. 

THE    BETTER    SELF. 

There  are  those  whose  better  self  lies  slain, 

By  their  own  hand,  to  trouble  them  no  more, 
Who've  sacrificed  their  virtue  just  to  gain 

The  fruits  which  sin  doth  seem  to  hold  in  store; 
Who,  lo,  these  many  years  were  dead  to  love 

And  purity  and  all  its  inward  joy, 
Who  catch  no  glimpses  of  the  light  above, 

And  cast  aside  their  birthright  as  a  toy. 

But  thou,  sweet  child,  can  never  be  like  these, 

Thy  better  self  controls  thy  every  move, 
And  wouldst  thou  e'er  thy  baser  spirit  please, 

Thy  better  self  would  chide  thee  and  reprove. 
It  is  too  strong  for  you  to  disobey, 

Thank  God  for  that,  and  try  each  day  to  show 
Yourself  obedient  to  its  benign  sway, 

And  live  the  Christ  life  here  on  earth  below. 


CRADLED     MOONS  177 


XXII. 

I     KNOW    YOUR    VOICE. 

I  know  your  voice.     I  hear  it  in  the  wind ; 

I   hear  it  in  the  silence  of  the  night. 
Its  echoes  sweetly  vibrate  on  my  mind, 

Though  never  do  I  comprehend  it  quite. 
I  list  unto  its  soft  and  gentle  tones 

In  meadow  brooks  and  in  each  gurgling  rill, 
It  cries  to  me  from  out  the  very  stones, 

And  everywhere  its  accents  haunt  me  still. 

It  conjures  up  the  scenes  of  childhood  days, 

When  pure  of  heart  I  wandered  in  the  wood 
And  listened   to  the  linnet  trill  its   lays 

Of  happiness   and  peace. — Then  life  seemed  good, 
And  God  was  close  at  hand,  and  I  could  hear 

That  still,  small  voice  which  prompted  me  to  be 
All  that  my  inner  soul  had  long  held  deaf, 

And  purest  love  was  its  affinity. 


XXIII. 

THE    FEAR    OF    BEING    GREAT. 

The  fear  of  being  great  is  what  keeps  men 

Forever  little  both  in  mind  and  soul, 
And  many  a  man  with  talents  more  than  ten 

Has  dared  not  try  to  reach  the  mighty 's  goal. 
The  coward  thought  has  gripped  them  in  its  hold, 

The  fear  that  genius  is  of  different  clay. 
That  God  Who  fashioned  broke  its  spirit's  mould 

When  one  such  soul  was  sent  upon  its  way. 


178  CRADLED     MOONS 


Oh,  we  who  view  the  world  with  older  eyes, 

Should   shout  this   truth   from   housetops   everywhere, 
And  tell  our  youth  that  he  who  really  tries 

The  ripe  fruits  of  true  greatness  will  he  share. 
And  that  this  fear  of  which  I've  spoke  in  rliy-n? 

Is  foolish,  vain,  and  speaks  of  cowardice, 
And  only  those  who  rise   to  heights   sublime 

Can  understand  what  living  truly  is. 


XXIV. 

THE  WORLD'S  NEED. 

The  whole  round  world  is  but  a  woman's  child. 

Its  childish  instincts  claim  what  mothers  give, 
Maternal  love,  sweet,  pure  and  undefiled 

It  must  have  if  its  better  self  would  live. 
Her  tenderness,  supreme  in  everything,  % 

The  self-denial  which  all  mothers  own, 
The  mother-thought  of  which  the  poets  sing 

And  other  attributes  bv  mothers  shown. 


The  whole  round  world  of  wliich  we  are  a  part 

Reflects  our  feelings  be  they  good  or  ill, 
And  what  we  own  to  our  dear  mother's  heart 

The  world  doth  own  to  God's  Infinite  will. 
And  it  receives  from  Him  who  gave  it  birth 

The  same  sweet  tenderness  and  love  which  we 
Who  can  appreciate  our  mother's  worth 

Enjoy  and  bless  her  for  eternally. 


CRADLED     MOONS  179 


XXV. 

GIVING. 

You  have  learned  it. — The  deepest,  noblest  joy 

In  all  the  world  is  giving  what  you  may, 
For  kings  whom  many  pleasures  seem  to  cloy 

No  better  fun  nor  happiness  essay ; 
The  slavey  in  her  daily  life  of  toil 

Can  know  its  joy  as  well  as  knighted  peer, 
And  all  in  life  who  are  compelled  to  moil, 

Or  idle  rich,  can  own  its  gladsome  cheer. 

And  ever  happiest  of  the  lot  are  those 

Who  give  away  where  naught  can  be  returned, 
Who  ne'er  in  ostentatious  manner  pose, 

Who  have  of  poverty  their  kindness  learned. 
The  secret  of  a  happy  life  is  this, 

A  blessed  life  whose  potency  is  great, 
It's  giving  without  stint  or  prejudice, 

And  every  thought  of  self  subordinate. 


XXVI. 

TRANSIENT    BEAUTY. 

All  men  and  women  are  fair.     Some  you  know 

Are   fairer   than   others,   'tis    Nature's   fault, 
For  had  she  but  endeavored  to  bestow 

Her  charms  alike,  there'd  be  none  would  revolt. 
But  wise  old  Nature  knew  what  we  do  not, 

Though  beauty,  grace  and  kindred  things  abound 
In  all  her  realms,  equality  is  not 

And  never  will  in  anything  be  found. 


180  CRADLED     MOONS 


So  it  behooves  all  those  who  fairest  are 

To  be  considerate,  and  bear  in  mind 
That  they  have  more  .to  make  them  so  by  far, 

And  should  in  consequence  be  truly  kind. 
For  beauty's  but  a  fading,  passing  flower, 

It  buds,  it  blossoms,  and  it  drops  away, 
Forgot  it  is  in  but  a  fleeting  hour, 

Bv  all  who  marked  its  beautv  in  its  dav. 


XXVII. 

SUBSERVIENCY. 

No  man  may  accept  a  gift  with  honor — 

Save  from  a  friend,  a  friend  that  he  knows  well, 
Who,  when  friendship  prompts  him  to  be  donor 

Gives  more  than  e'en  the  gift  itself  could  tell; 
Whose  heart  and  soul  go  out  in  loving  thought, 

Whose  prayers  attend  the  simplest  proffered  gift, 
Whose  act  in  kindliness  and  love's  begot, 

Whose  motives  none  would  ever  think  to  sift. 

But  where  pure  love  doth  prompt  the  giver's  hand, 

No  servile  motives  underlie  the  act, 
Then  honor,  truth  and  rectitude  shall  stand 

And  vouch  for  its  sincerity  in  fact.. 
But  well  it  is  for  young  men  to  beware, 

For  often  in  a  gift  there  is  implied 
Subserviency  or  that  which  might  ensnare 

And  by  acceptance  would  their  honor  cast  aside. 


CRADLED     MOONS  181 


XXVIII. 

LOVE  AND  THE  FEAR  OF  POVERTY. 

Love !     She  is  a  woman,  and  she  can  love 

All  men  save  one,  and  with  all  men  may  dwell 
Save  he  alone  who  fears  the  mailed  glove, 

The  snorting  charger  and  the   battle  smell; 
The  coward,  who  betrays  love  with  a  kiss, 

Whose  very  glance  turns  sweetness  into  gall, 
Who  lives  a  life  of  wicked  avarice 

Which  love  espews, — she'll  none  of  him  at  all. 

It  is  not  poverty's  grim  self  alone 

Which  drives  love  out  from  the  poor  cottage  door, 
But  fear  of  poverty  which  has  been  known 

To  wreck  our  hopes  and  lives  forevermore, 
And  often  lias  that  fear  been  proved  to  be 

Absurd  and  groundless  yet  too  late  in  life 
To  call  back  love  and  its  sweet  purity 

Which  once  acknowledged  was  by  man  and  wife. 


XXIX. 

A   PROMISE. 

There   will  come  days,   perhaps,  my   friend,  which   will 

Recall  a  promise  made  when  life  was  young, 
When  tempters  try  to  lead  you  down  the  hill, 

When  sirens  lure  with  silver  music  sung; 
When  righteous  thoughts  might  savor  of  a  prude, 

When  Satan  comes  bedecked  in  guise  of  friend, 
And  seeks  your  soul  with  sinful  pleasures  lewd, 

Then  will  that  promise  made  its  strength  extend. 


182  CRADLED     MOONS 


For  promises  are  like  the  iron  bar 

The  builder  uses  in  his  concrete  wall; 
Cement  alone  might  stand  the  shock  and  jar, 

But  iron  binds  and  strengthens  'gainst  a  fall. 
And  every  righteous  promise   which  we   make 

And  resolution  to  attempt  the  best 
Will  steel  our  souls  in  trial,  and  awake 

The  memories  which  long  have  bee.n  at  rest. 


XXX. 

A    GLADSOME    GIFT. 

You   shall   give   to  me,  my   friends,   this   gladsome   gift, 

That  I  can  keep  and  cherish  and  enjoy, 
Which  will,  when  memories  overwhelm  me,  lift 

Each  troubled  doubt  which  would  my  peace  destroy. 
A  promise  of  a  love  without  an  end 

WThich  you'll  forever  to  each  other  hold, 
That  never  will  with  dross  nor  baseness  blend 

But  always  gleam  as  doth  the  purest  gold. 

For  love  'twixt  man  and  woman  doth  reflect 

A  higher  love  which  we  believers  know, 
And  how  can  we  that  heavenly  love  expect 

If  ever  we  this  earthly  love  outgrow? 
For  love  is  life  and  life  is  God,  and  all 

Harmoniously  are  blended  into  one, 
And  when  Death's  angel  blows  the  trumpet  call 

Eternal  life  and  love  shall  be  begun. 


CRADLED     MOONS  183 


XXXI. 

LEAVE-TAfclNG. 

Leave-takings  are  but  sadness  wasted,  quite, 

We*  meet  in  life,  we  part  in  death,  and  yet 
Our  parting  is  but  passing  in  the  night 

And  never  should  we  this  sweet  thought  forget; 
That  night-time  passes,  and  the  rising  sun 

Proclaims  another  day  in  which  we  meet, 
Each  radiant  with  a  new  life  just  begun, 

A  life  where  we  renew  our  friendship  sweet. 

I  also  am  a  servant  and  have  work 

Which  I  must  do, — my  Father  now  commands 
That  I  depa*rt  and  go  where  troubles  lurk 

Help  bind  again  the  parted,  broken  strands 
Of  love  and  hope.     Good  bye,  my  friend,  good  bye. 

I  shall  return  in  God's  own  time ;  till  then 
With  all  the  noblest  thoughts  in  life  comply, 

Be  true  to  self,  and  love  thy  fellow  men. 


O,  thou  interpreter  of  love  and  truth, 
We  never  will  forget  thy  sublime  art; 

Thy  mirrored  face  regenerates  with  youth 
And  reflects  sunshine  in  each  troubled  heart. 


184  CRADLED     MOOXS 


TOO  PROUD  TO  PRAY 


She  was  too  pro*id  to  pray ; 

Too  proud, 

And  yet — 

Her  life  was  but  a  voiceless  prayer 

Living  her  hopes,  unuttered, 

Rare  in  the  beauty  of  a  Perfect  Prayer; 

ONE  knew,  and  answered, — then 

I  came  into  her  world, 

Apart,  yet  in  a  world  of  men, 

Sang  of  Her  song, 

Her   kindled   faith  to   share, 

Read  of  her  heart 

And   saw — 

The  woman  there, 

God: — What  a  prayer, 

What  a  prayer ! 

She  was  too  proud  to  pray, 

Too    proud, 

But  that  was   in  her  yesterday, 

For  now 

Her  inner  soul,  unfettered,  leaps 

To    Him, 

And  rings 

With  music  of  remembered  things 

Lost   in  her  wayward  pride, 

Voicing  in  symphony  of  prayer 

That  which  is  bare 

Of  pride, 


CRADLED     MOONS  185 


And  I, — I  care, 
And  dare ; 

God: — What  a  prayer, 
What   a   prayer. 


SONNET. 

To  Virginia. 

I  gathered  blushing  roses  kissed  by  June, 

I   pressed  their  tender  petals  to  my  heart, 

And  then,  as  children  do,  I  tore  apart 

Their  scented  loveliness;  (my  life's  at  noon) 

And  though  the  leaves  were  by  soft  winds  bestrewn 

I  took  the  perfumed  sweetness  to  the  mart 

In  jars  that  Memory  fashioned  by  her  art 

So  I  might  keep  the  spirit  of  the  Jujie. 

How  like,  Virginia,  are  thy  roses  now 

To  Spring-time's  crowning  glories,  fresh  and  sweet? 

Yet  Time  will  rend  thy  blooms,  and  years,  somehow 

Bear  off  the  rapturous  red  of  youth's  conceit, 

But  Memory  lives  and  holds  for  me  I  trow, 

The  pure  child  fragrance  in  thy  soul  complete. 


180  CRADLED     MOOXS 


I   NEVER  KNEW. 

I  never  knew  how  much  the  love  you  gave  me, 
I  never  knew  the  pain  you  bore  to  save  me, 

I  never  knew,  I  never  knew ; 
Xor  did  I  see  the  anguish  and  the  sorrow, 
The  stifled  fears  that  dreaded  each  to-morrow, 
Xor  did  I  note  how  far  the  tide  had  brought  me 
Until  the  eddy's  swirl  enticed  and  caught  me, 
I  did  not  see,— *the  mists  had  so  enwrapped  me, 
And  but  for  you  remorseful  rocks  had  trapped  me, 
The   lights   of   Love   your   heart's   true   beacon   showing 
Redeemed  and  saved  despite  my  weak,  unknowing, 
"I  never  knew, — I  never  knew." 

I  never  knew  what  fools  men  are  at  morning, 
Their  rising  sun  but  blinds  them  in  its  borning; 

I  never  knew,  I  never  knew ; 

Yet  graying  tones  of  Time  my  skies  are  blending, 
Through  misted  eyes  I  see  your  love  transcending, 
I  see  from  heights,  new  f<tund,  my  land  of  glory, 
And  couriers  bring  me  Wisdom's   grapes,  and   story 
Of   greening   woods,'  of   lakes    and   towering   mountains, 
Of  poets'  rests  beside  Hope's  gushing  fountains, 
And  as  I  see,  I  fear  not  dark  around  me 
Nor  dare  to  say  since  in  the  fog  you  found  me, 
"I  never  knew, — I  never  knew." 


CRADLED     MOONS  187 

HIS   HEART  WAS  YOUNG 
In  Memoriam 

JAMES    B.    HAWKINS 


He  was  not  old,  although  the  fruited  years 
Were   measured   by   a    four-score   written   guage, 
His   heart   was   young   and    laughed   at   whitened   age 
With  all  its  frailties  and  its  common  fears. 


Strong  in  his  faith,  a  faith  ingrained  in  youth, 
His  Christ  had  worn  for  him  a  joyful  mien, 
That   often   he   in   visioned   prayer   had   seen, 
I   knew  it,  for  his   life  reflected  Truth. 

Wise  were  his  words,  and  yet  was   Wisdom's   tongue 
Tempered  and  ruled  by  a  kin.d  father's  love 
And  soft  his  tone,  as  fluttered  wing  of  dove 
When  teaching  needed  lessons  to  the  young. 

The  children  knew, — they  sensed  his  finer  soul, 
They  gathered  'round,  his  hands  were  ever  held 
In  childish  clasp,  nor  yet  was  one  compelled 
Save  in  that  love  that  gave  him  sweet  control. 

His, life  was  calm,  though  raging  tempests  stirred 
And   sorrow   churned  its   placid   seas   to   foam, 
He   crossed   the   bar   and   brought   his    frail   craft   home 
Through  course  once  set  by  God's  Eternal  Word. 

He  is  not  dead !     No,  that  could  never  be, 

For  Death  is  Life,  and  life  not  far  away 

But    pulsed    with    ours,    and    through    the    endless    day 

He  lives,  and  still  his  Spirit  walks  with  me. 


188  CRADLED     MOOXS 

THE   GENTLE   LIFE 
In  Memoriam 

REV.    J.    V.    CLANCY 

"His  life  was  gentle,  and  the  element.*  so  mixed  in  him  that 
Xature  might  stand  up  and  say  to  all  the  world, — 'This  was  a 
»HUI  ."  " — SHAKESPEARK. 

This  privilege  was  mine, — I  knew  the  man, 
His  life,  so  calm,  'twas  like  a  placid  pool 
Kissed  by  the  willows  in  the  wooded  glen, 
Its    deeps   reflecting   Heaven's   smiling   blue 
And  in  its  close  confines  embracing  all 
The  Universe  above. 

I  loved  the  man ; 

His  gentle  life  appealed  to  men  like  me. 
The  elements  that  make  for  noble  souls 
So  blended  were  into  his  earthly  form 
That  common  folk,  whose  eyes  are  dim  at  best, 
Could   see  the   Moulder's  hand  that  fashioned  him 
And  purged  his  clay  of  dross. 

I    heard    the    man ; 

The  Sabbath  morns  I've  sat  beneath  his  spell 
When  unembellished  truths  of  gospel  lore 
Breathed  with  the  still  warm  mist  of  Spirit  faith, 
Soothed  and  inspired  the  restless  soul  I  own, 
Sweet  memories   all  shall  be,  and  evermore 
Remembrances   of  joy. 

I   saw  the  man ; 

I  watched  him  when  the   fateful  shadows   fell, 
No  coward  words  betrayed  an  anxious  thought, 
If  fears  there  were,  his  faith  supremely  stilled 
And  cast  them  out.     His  was  the  faith  that  sang. 
His  true  and  constant  prayer,  "Thy  will  be  done;" 
He  never  doubted  God. 


CRADLED     MOONS  189 


I  marked  the  man; 

As  one  whom  Heaven  had  sent  on  earth  to  lead, 
To  teacli  and  guide,  and  point  the  upward  way, 
I  marked  him  well,  and  now,  in  retrospect 
I  see  what  I  saw  not  while  lie  was  near, 
The  greatness   of  humility,   'twas   that 
Which  proved  and  gave  him  place. 

I've  missed  the  man; 

Since  he  has  gone,  the  curtains  low  are  drawn, 
Nor  I  alone,  his  world  still  mourns  him  dead; 
But  God  had  need,  His  servant's  work  was  done. 
Our  word  must  be  '\Amen" ;  yet  suns  will  shine 
Never  again   so  bright  for  those  whose  hands 
Have  felt  the  warmth  of  his.     God  loved  this  man. 


THE  KINDEST  MAN 

"The  kind  cut   man,  the  bent  conditioned  (did  unicenr'ted  Kjririt 
in    doin;/   court  exiex." — MERCHANT  OF   VENICE. 

In   Memoriam 

.     REV.     HENRY    E.     WARREN 


The  kindest  man ; 

Some   thoughts   transcend   our   studied  themes, 
The  pen  I  hold  can  ill  express 
The  measure  of  his  nobleness, 
For  like  an  angel  in  my  dreams 
He  comes — the  man  whose  heart  was  kind. 


190  CRADLED     MOONS 


The  kindest  man; 

O,  friends,  if  I  could  only  tell 
The  kindly  things  that  marked  arid  showed 
The  soul  of  him  whose  radiance  glowed 
And  cheered  beyond  a  parallel 
Save  Christ : — You'd  see  the  Christ  behind  ! 


The  kindest  man; 

I  saw  the  holy  balm  of  Love 
Which  he,  the  ministrant,  gave  all. 
I  heard  the  words  that  broke  the  thrall 
Of  sin,  and  taught  of  God  above" 
To  men: — In  him,  I  saw  God's  mind. 


The  kindest  man ; 

Beneath  his  bounds  of  fleshly  dress 
A  quiet  conscience  peaceful  lay, 
Unshrinking  from  the  light  of  day. 
His  hope  of  Everlastingness 
Was  real,  and  from  on  High  divined. 


The  kindest  man ; 

He   smote   the   rock    that    stemmed   the   stream 
From  founts  of  Love; — he  held  the  cup 
And  gave  a  measure  or  a  sup 
To  those  who  asked  for  Life  supreme 
And  Hope.     No  soul  he  e'er  declined. 

The  kindest  man; 

Death  is  a  jewel  in  the  crown 
Of  him  whose  form  returns  to  dust. 
Its  beauteous  gleam  reflects  the  just 
And  holy  life.      Though  dark  comes  down 
On  us, — still  shines  its  light  inshrined. 


CRADLED     .MOONS  191 


The  kindest  man; 

O  Grave,  where  is  thy  sting? 
O  Death,  thy  victory  is  naught! 
He  lives  forever  in  our  thought. 
We  pluck  the  blooms  of  gardening 
He  did.  and  all  of  them  remind 
Of  him: — the  kindest  man. 

The  man  whose  heart  was  kind. 


THE  GLORY  AND  SHAME  OF  GOD 

i 

God  created  man.      He  breathed  into  the  mould 
His  sacred  breath,  and  from  the  base  arose 
A  prodigy  of  earth !      Supreme  o'er  finite  things 
And  heir  to  infinite.      Creative  power  He  gave 
In  all  save  life.      As  dwelling  place  He  loaned 
The  gem  of  all  His  millioned  stars, 
He  bade  man  live; — live,  and  joy  in  life; 
Man  was  the  glory  of  God ! 

God  created  man.      The  power  He  gave  to  clay 

Grew  insolent  and  arrogated  all  to  self; 

Denied  the  right  to  create  life,  man  joyed 

And  reveled  in  destruction's  fearful  might. 

He  killed,  yet  not  content  with  slaughter  of  the  brute, 

The  instruments  of  death  he  hurled  upon  Ifis  kind 

For  fancied  wrongs.      The  Universe  sheds  tears. 

Man  is  the  shame  of  God ! 


192  CRADLED     MOOXS 


THE    HYPOCRITE 

Thus  spake  the  Hypocrite: 

"I  did  not  seek  this  thing,  'twas  thrust  upon 
My  meek  and  lowly  self,  Oh  foul  the  deed ! 
Here  lie  my  hero  dead,  for  me  they  died, 
Nor  questioned  why,  and  all  because  of  those 
Who,  like  a  host  of  vandals  seeking  prey, 
Sought  to  destroy  and  lay  our  land  to  waste. 
Rude,  lustful  men,  not  knowing  kultur's  pride 
Deaf  to  the  mandates  from  my  august  throne 
Prompted  by  Love,  with  none  of  War's  desire, 
Which,  if  obeyed,  would  make  this  mundane  world 
Utopia  for  all." 


The  Poet  Deigns  Reply: 

"O,  base,  unworthy  wearer  of  thine  ermine  robes, 

Thy  acts  belie  thy  weak  and  supine  words, 

Were  twenty  years  of  ceaseless,  studied  toil 

To  hoard  the  garnered  crops  that  Death  had  sown 

For  naught  but  love  ?     Was  it  for  this  you  heaped 

A  golden  minted  store,  and  builded  vast 

And  mighty  arsenals,  where  molten  steel 

Ran  like  the  f reshet  brooks  in  molds  of  Hell  ? 

Was  it  for  Love  thy  banquet  toasts  were  made 

To  that  e'er  nearing  and  designed- for  'Day'  ? 

Was   Love  the  prompter  when   thy  men  prepared 

With  thy  consent  the  noxious,  poisoned  gas 

To  blast  and  kill?      Was  this  all  done  for  naught? 

Go,  shed  thy  tears, — the  whirlwinds  sown  of  yore 

Have  gathered  force,  and  even  now  o'erwhelm 

And  frighten  thee.      I  would  not  change  my  place, 

My  humble  lodge,  a  poet's  frugal  life, 

For  all  the,,  vast  estates  and  honors  thine 

Were  consciences  to  be  exchanged,  and  hearts,     • 

I  sing  of  Love,  not  hate,  save  to  thy  kind, 

Thou  hypocrite !" 


CRADLED     MOONS  193 


LOOK  TO   THE   END 

The  Sinking  of  the  Lusitania  by  a   German  submarine 
prompted  this  poem. 

The  German  Empire  is  no  more, 

The  hand  that  struck  unseen 

An  ocean's  ruling  queen 
Has  stricken  hearts  of  millions  more 

Than  sank  in  waters  green, 

Cursed  be  that  hand  unseen! 

Tli,e  Emperor  of  Hate  has  smiled, 

And  in  his  smile  he  lost 

What  centuries  have  cost, 
The  reverence  born  to  German  child, 

A  people's  love  embossed 

On  Union's  shield; — yes,  lost! 

Oh,  we  whose  veins  prove  Teuton  sires, 

Who  heretofore  were  proud 

Of  German  traits  endowed, 
Must  grasp  Hate's  fagots  from  War's  fires, 

And  hide  its  deeds  with  shroud, 

O,  God ! — and  we've  been  proud  ! 


THE   YELLOW  CLOUD 

A  cloud,  a  yellow  cloud,  and  deep  and  dense 
(Methought  the  farmer-gods  burned  saffron  pitch 
Or  damped  the  stubble  from  their  garnered  fields 
To  smother  flame,  save  for  a  breath  to  fan 
Their  slow  consuming  fire)   it  rose.     The  sun, 
My  laughing,  joyous  sun,  that  sang  of  Hope 
And  gave  me  life,  a  poet's  life — yea,  more — 
Was  lost  to  view,  and,  but  for  truant  rays, 
Tinged  with  a  yellow  cast,  the  day  was  done. 


•194  CRADLED     MOONS 


And  with  a  rush  the  winds  of  Heaven  shook 

And  swayed  the  giants  of  my  little  world, 

I  thought  them  strong  (I  mean  the  oaks  and  pines 

My  sires  planted  in  the  bygone  years), 

Some  fell,  their  roots  exposed  a  worthless  clay, 

But  most   stood  firm,  though   beat  by   scourging   blasts 

And  hissed  by  mocking  Voices  of  the  winds. 

And  I — I  was  afraid.      I  looked,  and  lo ! 
In  the  blackening  deeps  of  the  cloud  I  saw 
(As  though  I   had  gazed  on  a  silvered  glass 
That  mirrored  the  deeds  of  a  demon  world) 
A  picture  of  War !      Men  mounted  and  afoot, 
Guns,  weltering  steel,  man's  vulture-like  planes, 
The  gray  of  the  froth-churning  fleets  of  the  sea, 
The  eye  of  the  seeing  yet  shadowless  boat 
Still  lying  beneath  the  crests  of  the  waves ; 
All  this  did  I  see,  and  more.      In  the  west 
Leered  a  Mongol  face  with  a  jealous  hate 
Expressed  thereon.     And  then  a  shadow  hand 
Wrote  witli  a  blood-dipped  pen  (a  broken  spear) 
These  dismal  words — "For  you  to  come,  for  you !" 

I  closed  my  eyes,  the  Coward-thought  had  gripped 
And  held  me  bound — and  then,  to  view  again 
I  opened  them.      Behold!      That  yellow  cloud 
Had  almost  disappeared.      Its   fleeting  fringe 
Formed  on  the  blue  of  the  heavenly  bowl 
As  though  it  were  writ  by  the  Maker's  hand, 
The  one  word  "Fear."     I  knelt,  and  understood; 
The  sun  drove  off  the  winds.      My  little  world 
Once  more  rejoiced;  the  fallen  trees  I  left 
That  I  might  be  reminded  of  these  truths ; 
Fear  is  a  cloud,  a  shadow,  seeming  real, 
Portentous  glooms  give  way  to  joyous  suns, 
The  winds  of  doubt  can  but  uproot  the  weak, 
No  more  I'll  fear  again.      Fear  is  not  real. 


CRADLED     MOONS  195 


THE    RETINUES 

Like  a  bolt  from  out  the  sky, 
With  its  vivid,  blinding  flash, 
Like  the  thunder's  grinding  crash, 
Like  the  wind-waves  on  the  rye, 
On  the  shimmering,  ghostly  wings 
Of  the  man-birds  of  the  air, 
With  the  bombast  and  the  flare 
Of  the  iron  hulls  of  kings, 
So  came  War. 

Like  the  frightened  mew-gull's  flight, 
Rising  swift  with  startled  cries, 
As  the  circled  white  moon  dies 
In  the  cloud-black  depths  of  night, 
'Midst  the  dirges  of  the  weak 
And  the  fear-doubts  of  the  strong, 
'Midst  the  vaunt  of  martial  song 
And  the  sword  blade's  cut-air  shriek, 
So  fled  Peace. 

Followed  each  a  retinue, 
War,  the  mighty,  proudly  stalked, 
Close-heeled  by  the  hosts  who  walked 
Liveried  in  sombre  'hue 
Of  the  Grand  Duke  Death,  the  grave, 
Goaded  \)y  Wrong's  fancied  stings 
And  by  bravura  of  kings, 
Honest  hosts,  yet  withal  slaves, 
Slaves  of  War. 


196  CRADLED     MOONS 


Like  the  vultures  of  the  plain, 
Tagging  on,  and  grasping  tight, 
Came  the  spectres  of  War's  night, 
Chortling  o'er  their  toll  of  slain 
Full  accoutred,  Famine  rode, 
Pestilence  ranged  to  and  fro, 
Poverty,  like  carrion  crow, 
Ate  the  seeds  that  Peace  had  sowed, 
Seeds  of  Love. 


Such  a  retinue  had  War. 
Peace,  the  passive,  when  she  fled, 
Marched  with  Progress  straight  ahead 
To  the  realms  of  Future  Law. 
Justice  rode  on  jewelled  seat, 
Wealth  and  Honor  marked  the  way, 
Industry  linked  hands  with  Play, 
Hope,  victorious   o'er  defeat, 
Ensigns  bore. 


When  the  War-clouds  have  been  rent, 
When  Love's  seeds  once  more  take  root 
And  the  blood-riched  ground  bears  fruit, 
When  the  strength  of  Might  is  spent, 
When  a  sane  world,  now  o'er  thrown 
By  grim  War  and  retinue, 
Holds  its  futile  ends  in  view, 
Then  shall  Peace  come  to  its  own 
And  for  aye. 


CRADLED     MOONS  197 


AN  HANDFUL  OF  MEAL 

"An  handful  of  meal  in  a  barrel,  and  a  little  oil  in   a 
cruse." — 1st    Kings,    17:12. 

I  sat  in  my  cosy  study,  with  naught  but  the  light  from 

the  log 
That    burned    on    the    hearth-stone    ruddy,    defying    the 

damp  and  the  fog 

Of  the  out-doors'  dark  and  gloom, 
And  I  heard  the  cold  winds  bluster  as  they  swept  from 

the  Blue  Hills  down, 
While  the  rain-drops  gleamed  with  lustre  like  the  jewels 

of  a  crown 

On  the  windows  of  my  room. 

There  I  mused  o'er  a  poet's  yearnings,  and  I  longed  for 

a  theme  and  song 
That,  like   the  log  in  its   burnings,  would   flout  all   the 

storms  of  Wrong 

And  banish  the  glooms  of  pain ; 
When,  up-startled  quick,  I  listened  to  the  meanings  of 

the  wind, 
And  saw  where  the  window  glistened,  a  picture,  sharp 

defined 

In  the  globule  of  the  rain. 

Like   a   lens   with  its   focal   power   reducing  a   mirrored 
scene, 

That  fleck  of  the  whipping  shower  then  thrown'  on  my 
glazed  screen 

Reflected  a  saddening  sight, 

For  my  mind  had  a  sensive  coating,  and  the  image  trans 
ferred  there 

Still    lives    in    its    confines,    smoting    and    chiding    me, 
whene'er 

My  ease-fond  heart  sings  light. 


198  CRADLED     MOONS 

'Twas   a   garret   in   the   city,   one   my   pen   could   never 

draw, 
And  my   soul  was   filled  with  pity   at  the  wretchedness 

I  saw, 

In  no  place  mollified, 
There,  a  woman   I   saw,  weeping,  while   around  her  on 

the  floor 
Lay  three  little  children,  sleeping,  rags   their  coverlet, 

no  more, 

No  warm  fire  I  espied. 

Starved,  the  form  that  I  saw  bending  o'er  a  cupboard, 

seeming  bare, 
'Twas    a    picture   most    heart-rending,   one   of   poverty's 

despair, 

Foreign,  even  unto  me, 
Roughened  hands  she  wrung  in  sorrow,  tears  redoubled 

in  their  flow 
As  she  thought  of  the  to-morrow  and  of  what  it  might 

bestow, 

Dark  the  portents.  I  could  see. 

In    the     flickering    lamp-light    gleaming.     I     beheld    an 

earthen  crock, 

Which,  though  once  with  flour  teeming,  now  a  handful 
held,  to  mock 

And  to  jeer  at  falling  tears, 
Then  I  thought  of  that  old  story,  handed  from  the  ages 

down, 

Of  a  prophet,  old  and  hoary,  of  a  widow  in  a  town 
Gone  for,  lo !  these  many  years. 

And  how  God,  through  him,  sustained  her,  though  the 

meal  and  oil  ran  low, 
Through  her  faith,  the  scant  remainder  never  seemed  to 

lesser  grow 

All  despite  the  common  use, 


CRADLED     MOONS  199 


And  I  wondered  if  past  ages  were  more  favored  by  the 

Lord, 
If   our   griefs    He   still    assuages,    when    His    mercy    is 

implored. 

If  He  still  refills  Life's  cruse? 


While    I    mused,    another    falling    raindrop,    merged    in 

unison 

With  the  first,  that  scene  appalling,  was  translated  into 
one 

Filled  with  even  greater  shame, 

I  beheld  a  battle  raging,  I  could  see  the  cannon's  flash, 
And  the  smoke  arose,  presaging  death  to  thousands  in 
the  clash, 

Hell-like  seemed  War's  lurid  flame. 
In  the  midst  of  that  fierce  battle,  'twixt  both  armies  in  a 

trench, 

Undisturbed  by  roar  and  rattle,  minding  not  the  rotting 
stench, 

Lay  a  soldier  nigh  to  death, 

In  his  hand  a  picture  showing  wife  and  children  count 
ing  three, 

Who,  I  could  not  help  but  knowing,  were  the  same  that 
I  did  see, 

Rapt,  I  held  my  quickened  breath. 


First,  he   gazed   on   it   intently,   with   a   smile   upon   his 
face, 

To  his  lips  he  raised  it  gently,  then  I  saw  the  teardrops 
race 

Down  each  blackened,  smoke-stained  cheek, 

And  I   saw  his  lips  beseeching  God  Almighty  them  to 
spare, 

When  a  hurtled  shell  came  screeching,  falling  close  be 
side  him  there, 

Crazed  by  fear,  I  gave  a  shriek ! 


200  CRADLED     MOONS 


In  my   fright,   I   lost  the  setting  of  the  picture  in  the 

rain, 
And  my   eyes   were   welled   and  wetting,   for   the   tears 

knew  no  restrain, 

I  had  seen  what  War  had  wrought, 
And  the  darkening  shadows  lengthened,  as  the  charring 

log  low-burned, 
Though  the  blackened  depths  but  strengthened  all  that 

plastic  mind  discerned, 

Coming,  as  it  did,  unsought. 

Then  I  looked  for  my  vision's  meaning,  for  I  knew  that 

a  lesson  lay 
In  these  pictures   for  my  gleaning,  so  I  read  what  the 

prophets  say, 

And  this  was  revealed  to  me: 
If  thou  draw  out  thy  soul's  deep  measure  to  the  hungry, 

and  satisfy  need 
Of  afflicted  hearts  with  thy  treasure,  thy*  light  shall  the 

noon-day  exceed 

And  rise  from  obscurity. 

And  I  read  of  the  promise  spoken,  He  would  widows  and 

fatherless  shield, 
For  the  handful   of  meal  was   a  token   of  bushels   His 

harvests  should  yield, 

And  herein  my  lesson  lay ; 
And  I  vowed  that  the  poet's  mission  would  henceforth 

be,  to  bring 
A  world  of  self-men  to  contrition,  and  teach  of  the  joys 

that  spring 

From  sharing  our  joys  alway. 


*Is;ii;ili  Iviii.  10. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  201 


THE    ACCUSING    HANDS 

A     1918    MEMORIAL    DAV    THOUGHT 

I  had  a  vision  of  the  nearer  Past, 
I  saw  tfie  marching  hosts  of  Glory  come 
Timing  their  step  with  rhythm  of  the  drum 
Muffled  for  mortal  ears.      I  stood  aghast 
At  numbers  dressed  in  the  familiar  blue 
Sacred  and  blessed  through  Freedom's  sacrifice, 
Eacli  one  a  measure  of  an  holy  price 
That  paid  the  debt  for  Liberty  I  knew. 

And  as  they  marched,  instead  of  brave  salute 

To  me,  the  watcher  by  the  spirit  road, 

Their  fingers  seemed  to  point  in  shame,  and  goad 

My  shrinking  soul.     Their  voices,  too,  were  mute, 

But  oh,  the  eloquence  of  piercing  eyes, 

I  saw  in  them  THE  QUESTION  of  the  Day, 

"What  are  YOU  doing  in  the  mighty  fray 

To  save  the  world  and  still  its  anguished  cries?" 

And  when  they- passed,  the  hosts  of  Chosen  Dead, 

Another  line,  dull  khaki-clad,  marched  by, 

Lifting  in  pride  their  colors  to  the  sky, 

My  Flag,  by  France's  three  stripes  led, 

With  Briton's  naming  banner  close  behind, 

And  intermingled  oriflammes  of  those 

Who  fight  with  Right  against  unrighteous  foes, 

"O,  God,  how  young,"  the  thought  that  flashed  my  mind. 

They,,  too,  all  pointed  with  their  ghostly  hands 
At  me,  and  then  my  visioned  picture  changed. 
I  saw  distinct,  their  hallowed  mounds,  arranged 
In  countless  rows,  cross-marked,  in  foreign  lands; 


202  CRADLED     MOONS 


I  saw  the  serried  ranks  of  men  arrayed 
Defying  Death,  and  braving  Hell,  for  me, 
That  I,  and  all  my  kind,  be  truly  free, — 
And  then  I  wept  in  bitterness,  and  prayed: 

• 

"Lord,  what  am  I,  that.  I  should  dream  and  sing 
Whilst  they,  the  Living  Dead,  march  to  Thy  Throne? 
Am-  I  a  coward,  that  I  watch  alone 
And  nurse  my  hopes,  when  stalwart  comrades  bring 
Their  greatest  sacrifice  to  Thee  for  aye, 
Their  golden  lives,  their  manhood's  restless  prime, 
Their  fresli  youth  dreams,  each  offering,  sublime; 
Must  I  but  sit  and  dream  through  troubled  day?" 

God  answers  prayer,  and  ere  my  vision  left 
There  came  to  me  a  voice  in  thunder  tone : 
"Go,  seek  the  altars  that  are  thine  alone, 
Then  sing  thy  song  to  cheer  the  hearts  bereft, 
And  I,  the  living  God,  will  lend  thy  music  fire, 
Healing  for  nations  when  the  conflicts  cease, 
Voicing  My  Thoughts  into  Eternal  Peace, 
Thy  song  shall  fill  the  troubled  heart's  desire!" 

And  hearing  thus,  I  oped  my  eyes,  and  s'aw 

The  arched  Heavens  smiling  down  on  me, 

And  lo !  my  song  rose  higher  yet,  and  free ! 

I  sang  of  Order,  Peace  and  Perfect  Law, 

And  from  the  garden  of  my  soul  I  drew 

The  sweetest  flowers  of  Love  to  lay  on  sod 

Where  sleep  the  men  who  found  their  peace  in  God ; 

The  clav  that  wore  the  khaki  and  the  blue ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  203 


THE  HALLOWED  STAR  OF  GOLD 


'Twas  a  little  gray  house  by  an  old  country  road 

That  attracted  nty  notice  to-day, 
For  there  hung  in  a  window  a  banner,  which  showed 

A  contrast  most  marked  to  its  gray. 

There  was  one  golden  star  on  a  centred  white  field, 
With  a  border,  blood-red,  as  a  frame, 

But  oh !  how  it  thrilled  as  its  presence  revealed 
A  glory  so  worthy  of  fame. 

Like  Jupiter's  gleams  at  the  first  kiss  of  Night 

It  glowed  in  my  vision,  and  left 
In  the  deep  of  my  soul  the  gold  of  its  light 

To  give  to  the  hearts  now  bereft. 

And  I  saw  in  its  beams,  not  the  death  typified, 

But,  rather,  the  Hope  of  all  hopes, 
The  vision  of  Life  across  the  Divide,. 

And  the  Door  that  true  sacrifice  opes. 

As  the  lightning  reveals  ere  the  dull  thunders  grind, 

I  glimpsed  in  a  land  far  away 
The  brave,  stalwart  men  who  were  marching  behind 

The  Stars  and  the  Stripes  to  the  fray. 

And  I  singled  from  out  the  thousands  who  fought 
The  lad  for  whom  gold  was  displayed, 

And  I  noted  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  I  caught 
A  glance  of  his  eyes,  unafraid. 


204  CRADLED     MOONS 


There,  I  saw  him  enthused  with  the  purpose  of  Right 

And  the  love  of  his  Country's  ideal, 
Go  leaping  to  death  in  the  thick  of  the  fight, 

Forgetting  himself  in  his  zeal. 

My  vision  was  brief,  but  I  saw  him  go  down, 

Yet  not  in  the  throes  of  defeat, 
For  I  knew  that  such  death  but  betokened  a  crown 

And  a  place  in  God's  holy  retreat. 

Then  that  single  starred  flag  in  the  house  by  the  road 

Seemed  hallowed  and  sacred  to  me, 
And  oh !  how  the  gold  on  its  white  bosom  glowed 

As  it  whispered  this  message  to  me. 

» 

No,  they  are  not  dead,  those  who  fall  in  the  Cause 

That  glorifies  Strife,  for  they  live 
In  the  Land  of  the  Leal  where  the  Infinite  draws 

To  Himself  the  life  that  He  gives. 

Then    my    soul    breathed    the    words    that    my    lips    left 
unsaid, 

"O,  God,  burn  this  gold  in  my  heart, 
And  give  me  to  teacli  in  my  song,  and  to  spread 

The  voice  of  this  star  through  my  art." 


CRADLED     MOONS  205 


THE  SERVICE  FLAG 

A  dingy  old  house,  a  tumble-down  house 

I  saw  in  a  ramble  today, 
And  rookeries  'round  where  the  poor  folk  abound 

Were  much  in  the  very  same  way.  • 

The  street  was  alive   (a  literal  hive) 

With  children,  (the  poor  have  the  most) 

A  slum  is  a  shame  for  a  city  whose  name 
Has  been  on.  our  lips  as  a  boast. 

There  I  pondered  this  thought,  as  the  fortunate  ought, 
What  if  I  had  been  born  to  these  things, 

Were  not  homes  on  this  street  just  as  dear  and  as  sweet 
As  where  money  and  power  made  kings  ? 

Then  my  eyes  caught  a  sight  in  the  sun's  slanted  light, 

Of  a  Service  Flag  over  the  door 
Of  that  dingy  old  house,  that  tumble-down  house, 

And  two  were  the  stars  that  it  bore. 

And  I  pictured  a  scene,  a  quite  common  scene, 

Inside  of  that  house  in  the  slums, 
I  could  see  hearts  of  gold  with  a  grief  unconsoled, 

Though  not  with  a  grief  that  succumbs. 

I  beheld  in  my  mind,  most  clearly  defined, 

A  picture  of  khaki-clad  men 
Who  brought  to  this  house,  this  dingy  old  house 

The  worthiest  honor  I  ken. 


206 


Then  I  took  off  my  hat  to  that  flag,  for  in  that 

I   saw  the  redemption  of  man 
Re-enacted  in  life,  in  a  land  rent  with  strife, 

And  here  was  a  part  of  the  plan. 

From  my  innermost  soul,  inarticulate  stole 
A  prayer  to  the  God  whence  all  comes, 

To  bless,  that  old  house,  that  dingy  old  house, 
That  tumble-down  house  in  the  slums. 


TWO  LESSONS 


I   HATE;— 

And  I  would  teach  the  hate  I  own 

Throughout  my   years  of  life, 

To   all 

Who  come  within  the  Teachings  of  my  voice, 

The  German  will,  the  German  mind,  the  German  god, 

The  god  of  avarice  and  power. 

The  mind  that  seeks  dominion  for  the  hour, 

The  will  that  has  alone 

Transformed  my  peace  to  strife 

And  made  a  hell  of  life ; 

I   hate, — 

God,  how  I   hate 

The  man  responsible  for   Rheims, 

The  PEWTER  EMPEROR  of  hosts 

Called,  and  rightly  called, 

HUNS. 

The  fool,  who  made  his  boasts, 

And  boasting,  laughed 

In  scorn 


CRADLED     MOONS  207 


When  babes  and  women  sank  in  pierced  seas, 

And  then, —  (the  height  of  infamy) 

Exalted  with  degrees 

His  underlings  who  worked  his  will, 

God !  I  would  teach 

My  hate! 


I  Love, — 

And  I  would  teacli  this  love  of  mine. 

Through  all  the  years  to  come, 

To  those 

Who  follow  me  and  step  within  my  fold, 

The  principles  that  underlie  the  war 

Which  the  Oppressed  is  waging  for  the  right. 

The  ideals  that  dethrone  the  might 

This  PEWTER  EMPEROR  acclaims; 

Ideals ; 

That  Men  are  more  than  names, 

That  kings   are   not  divine, 

That  nations  weak,  shall  not  be  dumb 

And  dance  to  rJiythm  of  the  drum; 

I  love, — 

God  !     How  I  love 

The  men  who  freely  consecrate 

And  give  their  lives  that  Freedom's  gleams 

Shall  flood  the  world ; 

Light 

That  shall  make  the  Deeps  rejoice 

And  Heaven  smile  once  more, 

And  oh,  how  I  love  that  fellow  thought 

That  makes  men  great 

And  brings 

Equality  with  kings, 

The  Truth  my  Christ  has  taught, 

True  life  is  Love. 

God  !     I  would  teach 

My  love! 


208  CRADLED     MOONS 


NO  MAN'S  LAND 

I've  never  been  on  No  Man's  Land, 

I've  never  crossed  the  sea, 
But  Oh,  I  know  that  No  Man's  Land 

Holds  treasures  dear  to  me, 
I   know  that  somewhere  on  its   soil 

The  richest  jewels  lie, 
And  gold  is  there, — aye,  gleaming  gold 
For  which  men  strive  and  die. 

I've  heard  men  tell  of  No  Man's  Land, 

How  jewels  have  been  found 
By  some  of  low  estate,  and  some 

Of  high,  upon  its  ground, 
The  jewels  that  I  long  for  most, 

And  gold  I  fain  would  gain, 
But  poets  write,  and  pens  are  weak, 

For  them  to  wish  is  vain. 

I've  asked  the  men  from  No  M%n's  Land 

The  names  of  jewels  there, 
And  what's  the  worth  of  yellow  gold 

That  lies  abundant  there, 
And  this  is  what  they've  answered  me, 

They  spake  with  bated  breath, 
The  jewels,  "Courage,  Honor,  Hope, 

The  price  of  gold  is — Death." 

I  cannot  go  to  No  Man's  Land, 

But  oh,  my  heart  is  there, 
I  know  what  men  have  sacrificed 

To  gain  these  treasures  rare, 
My  inner  eyes  can  see  their  souls 

As  shimmering  mists  of  gold 
Kissed  by  the  sun  on  No  Man's  Land, 

Their  numbers  are  untold. 


CRADLED     MOONS  209 


THERE    IS    BUT    ONE 


The  editor-in-chief  of  Le  Matin,  the  famous  newspaper  of 
Paris  told  in  Boston  the  other  day  of  a  Catholic  priest,  an 
Episcopal  clergyman  and  ;t  Jewish  rabbi,  who  as  chaplains  lived 
together  in  a  dugout.  After  a  battle  they  divided  the  work  of 
giving  the  last  rites  to  dying  soldiers  without  stopping  to  de 
termine  the  religious  affiliations  of  the  fallen  men.  There  were 
so  many  dying,  and  the  time  for  giving  them  spiritual  aid  and 
comfort  was  so  furiously  short!  The  French  editor  vouched 
for  the  story  of  a  rabbi  who  held  the  crucifix  to  the  lips  of  an 
1  expiring  Catholic !  It  is  a  triumph  of  humanness  to  fling  forms 
aside  amid  men  gasping  th  >ir  last  breath.  In  such  surround 
ings  the  appeal  of  essential  realities  dwarfs  mortal  views  and 
ways.  To  stay  the  passing  soul  on  the  supreme  goal  of  all 
religions  becomes  the  quick,  mastering  passion  of  any  man  with 
a  heart  in  him. — From  a  Daily 


I  have  sung  of  blood  and  battle, 

Roar  and  rattle, 

Men  like  cattle 

Slain; 

And  the  daily  News  has  vaunted 

Heroes  who  Death's  blooms  have  flaunted, 

And  who've  borne  with  smiles,  undaunted. 

Pain. 


And  heroic  deeds  have  thrilled  me. 

Some  have  dared  all  Hell,  and  filled  me 

With  a  wonder  that  has  stilled  me 

Quite ; 

But  the  brightest  stars  in  Glory 

Dim  beside  those  of  this  story, 

Men,  but  Christ-men,  through  the  gory 

Night ! 


Let  me   tell   my   story   simply, 
Let  me  tell  it  well. 


210  CRADLED     MOONS 


Typical,  and  not  a  feature, 

Rabbi,  Priest  and  surpliced  Preacher 

Shared  a  "Dugout"  home  'midst  creature 

Men, 

Where  the  guns  and  shells  were  shrieking. 

All  the  Hates  in  War  bespeaking, 

Oh,  I  see  that  marked,  blood-reeking 

Den! 

There  they  labored  with  their  brothers, 
Helped  each  other,  and  with  others 
Ministered,  and  wrote  to  mothers 
Hope, 

Healed  the  wounds  of  flesh  and  spirit, 
Walked  with  Death,  and  did  not  fear  it, 
Hand  in  band  with  those  who,  near  it, 
Grope. 

When  one  battle's  rage  was  ended, 
Through  the  night  these  three  attended 
Those  whose  wounds  for  them  portended 
Death ; 

Time  was  short  and  moments  fleeting, 
Who  could  tell  what  creeds  were  meeting 
Life  Eternal  in  retreating 
Breath  ? 

List  to  this,  oil,  Reader;    listen 
Tell  it  to  your  kin  at  home. 

How  the  Jewish  Rabbi,  pressing 
Crucifix  to  lips  professing 
Papist  hopes,  and  heard  confessing 
Sweet ; 

Gave  in  Love  God's  consolation, 
Flung  aside  Man's  figuration. 
Made  ALL  faiths  in  exultation 
Meet ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  211 


Oh,  the  lesson  in  this  story, 
ONENESS  in  men's  death  and  glory. 
Fraternizing  all  our  hoary 
Creeds ; 

Why  not  learn  of  this,  my  brothers? 
Teach  it,  oh,  ye  fathers,  mothers, 
See  the  common  God  in  others' 
Deeds ! 

Have  I  made  my  lesson  plain  ? 


AN  APOSTROPHE  TO  FRANCE 

I  cannot  speak  thy  tongue,  O,  France., 

Nor  can  I  boast  as  kin 

Of  thine, 

Oh,  that  I  could, 

God  knows  I  would, 

For  in  the  heart  that  beats  within 

My  singing  breast,  there  rings 

The  iron  echoes  of  momentous  things 

That  proved  thy  soul,  O,  France. 

This  joy  is  mine, 

To  sing  in  alien  tongue, 

But  still  to  sing 

Of  commonness  with  thee,  with  thine, 

For  in  thy  horning  sun  of  Freedom  came 

The  light  that  gleams  in  nascent  hope 

Otf  men 

Who  yet  are  bound  by  autocratic  rule 

And  gods  of  falsity  and  fear, 

Whose  spirits  seeming  grope 

'Midst   doubts   and  darkness   drear, 

Whose  leaders  play  the   fool. 


212  CRADLED     MOONS 


And   oh, 

If  I  can  but  inflame 

My  fellows  with  that  holy  fire 

That    burns    within    thy    breast. 

And  spills   from  out  its   frame 

On   Earth,   and   mounting   higher 

Kisses  the  throne  of  Heaven, 

Then, — then  will  my  song 

Be  music  worthy  of  thy  name, 

Of  Cause  thy  life  has  blest, 

And  I  shall  enter  heaven. 

My  debt  to  thee  is  still  unpaid,  O  France, 

For  me  thy   Maid  of  Orleans  girt 

Her  shapely   form  in  cased  steel, 

And  taught   that    Country's   weal 

Was   mine; 

My  hurt,  e'en  death — 

To  keep  its  starry  banner  bright 

Should  be  for  me  a  glorious  delight, 

And  LaFayette,   with  kindred  souls  who  gave 

Under  thy  flag,  themselves, 

To  save 

For  me  and  mine  the  liberties   I  claim, 

Taught  me  to  see  in  other  lands,  my  own, 

Taught  me  to  feel  that  supine  ease  is  shame, 

Nor  that  alone, 

But  damned. 

And  on  that  great  and  holy  day 

When  buttressed  symbol  of  the  despot's  sway 

Was  hurled  to  earth 

And  peasants  proved 

That  men  were  men  and  not  of  lesser  birth, 

Then  was  my  status  as  a  man  made  known, 

God  make  me  worthv  of  that  dav. 


CRADLED     MOONS  213 


And   now,   O,   France, 

Thy  potted  soil 

Cries  out  to  me,  lest  I   forget, 

Four  years,  the  Vandals,  typified 

In  Lust  and  Hate, 

Have  sought  to  break  thy  Freedom's  gate 

And  scale  the  walls  and  parapet 

Of  Liberty. 

Thy  youth  hath  died 

Saving  for  me  that  which  their  fathers  gave, 

Finding  their  peace  in  shell-torn,  shallow  grave, 

And  how  my  blood  doth  boil 

When  whispers  of  inhuman  warfare  float 

Across  the  sea 

To  me. 

But  oh, 

I  know  that  in  Time's  fulness  comes 

The   Day  of  days, 

When  France,  God's  France,  brave  France, 

Will  echo  with  the  triumph  of  the  drums 

That  shall  announce  the  vandal  foe's  retreat, 

Thy  Cause  upheld,  the  thief  despoiled  and  fled. 

The  glorifying  of   thy  worthy   dead, 

The  joyful  music  of  returning  feet 

Beating  a   freer  dust  than  that 

Of  Must, 

And  ALL  shall  sing 

That  song  of  triumph  with  its  golden  note, 

La  Marseilles. 


214  CRADLED     MOONS 

THE  SUPREME  GIFTS 

Written    for    Thanksgiving    Day,    1918. 

The  Spirit  of  the  year  1918  takes  counsel  with  the  ghosts  of 
the  Past  regarding  Thanksgiving  Day. 

Four  Spokesmen  for  the  past;  the  Spirit  of  the  heginning; 
the  Spirit  of  the  Christ-Birth  year,  the  Spirit  of  1492  and  the 
Spirit  of  1861. 

1918  speaks; 

"They  bid  me  thankful  be,  whose  sires  marked 

And  set  apart  a  day  of  thankfulness 

And  earnest  prayer  to  the  Eternal  God, 

What,  my  good  friends,  have  I  to  say  of  thanks? 

My  bruised  soul  was  born  amidst  the  cries 

Of    anguished    hearts    in    war-cursed    lands ; — my    nurse 

That  held  me  on  her  breast,  a  monster,  fierce, 

Her  breath  a  blast  of  fire,  her  mother  voice 

A  crash  that  'woke  the  echoes   like  a   clap 

Of  rasping  thunder  on  the  mountain  tops, 

The  seas  on  Earth,  my  habitat,  run  red, 

The  hands  of  men  are  crimson  stained  and  damp, 

I  hear  the  cries  of  Hunger;  Famine's  brood 

Fights  on  the  paths  of  War  for  sustenance. 

I   see  the  work  of  countless   years   o'erthrown 

And  \Visdom  mad   from   quaffing  wines   of    Power ; 

Oh  irony  of  words:  of  what  say  thanks? 

The  Spirit  of  the  Beginning  speaks; 

"Thou  stripling  of  an   Eon's   race,  give  thanks 

That  thou  hast  found  a  world  so  fair  to  view, 

When  I   awoke  to  cataclysmic  scenes 

The  Universe  was  dark,  the  Sun  was  not, 

The  moon,  the  stars,  were  merely  Thoughts  of  God, 

The  Earth  I  saw  as  but  a  shapeless  speck, 

Clay  to  be  fashioned  to  the  Potter's  will 

And  nothing  yet  was  whole,  yet  I  gave  thanks, 

Thankful  to  be, — to  be, — enough  for  me, 

Go  stripling,  go,  and  loose  thine  blinded  eyes." 


CRADLE13     MOONS  215 


The  Spirit  of  the  Christ-Birth   Year  speaks; 
"My  Peace  I  give  to  you,  my  Peace  I  leave, 
I  found  a  world  of  dark  and  shame,  a  world 
Unworthy  of  the  gift  bestowed  through  me, 
I  found  the  embers  of  an  holy  fire 
Smothered  and  almost  dead,  a  world  accursed ; 
I   found  a  people  but  a  step  removed 
From  that  beginning  marking  human  life, 
I  found  a  shallow'  world,  a  place  of  fools, 
And  yet,  despite  of  all,  my  singing  soul 
Sang  to  the  music  of  the  stringless  winds 
A  hymn  of  thanks  and  prayer,  for  God  sent  Love, 
Go,  find  Him  at  the  battle's  front,  at  sea, 
Where  men  are  found,  where  life  is  quick,  where  hearts 
Are  eager  with  the  hopes  of  better  years, 
Go,  take  my  Gift  anew,  and  then  give  thanks." 

The  Spirit  of  1492  speaks; 

"Bound  was  I  born,  yet  free  I  closed  my  time, 
Shackles  I  broke,  and  with  them  off,  there  came 
A  revelation  new  to  men  whose  curse 
Was  fear  of  venture  into  unknown  things, 
But,  prompted  by  my  whispered  hope,  there  came 
An  humble  soul,   ('tis  humbleness  that  leads) 
Who  made  a  sport  of  Fear,  who  whipped  the  seas 
And  opened  doors  long  closed  to  coward  hearts, 
My  dying  day  was  jubilant  with  praise, 
For,  out  of  darkness  I  had  urged  a  light, 
And  I  can  see  in  thine  obscurity 
A  borning  man,  supreme  to  be  of  fears, 
When  Time's  fruition  calls  him  forth  to  act, 
A  new  Discoverer  of  Peace  and  Love, 
Go,  search  him  out,  and  for  this  boon  give  thanks, 
That  thou  shalt  nurse  the  hopes  of  future  years." 

The  Spirit  of  1861  speaks; 
"Child  of  the  Now,  thy    elder  brother  speaks, 
Harken  to  me  and  learn  my  song  of  praise, 


216  CRADLED     MOONS 


I   came  when  iron  brands  were  burning  white, 

I  saw  the  flames  of  kinship  strife  arise, 

I  marked  the  "boundary  line  betwixt  the  Old 

And  thy  more  wonderful  and  radiant  New, 

I  too,  heard  shrieks  of  Justice  crucified, 

I  saw  the  youth  of  men  go  down  in  blood, 

But   I   gave  thanks,   for  I  could  see  beyond, 

The  triumph  of  a  Principle,  made  flesh, 

A  Man  of  Sorrows  making  millions  joy; 

Go,  mark  the  principles  that  underlie 

The  clouded  hours  of  thy  portentous  time, 

A  vision  glimpse  of  men  transformed  by  fire, 

Of  peoples  saved  by  casting  Self  aside, 

A  Deity  re-found  through  scourging  war, 

Of  Teachings  by  the  Low  above  the  Great, 

A  hate  dethroned  by  a  diviner  Hate 

That  only  hates  the  base.     O,  Brother  mine, 

Thine  is  the  glory  of  transcendent  thanks." 

The  Spirit  of  1918  in  shamed  penitence  prays; 

"Mine  is  the  shame,  O,  God  of  countless  years, 

Forgive,  forgive,  the  blindness  of  my  soul, 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  triumphs  manifest 

Of  Righteousness  and  Freedom,  long  in  dark, 

Of  fruited  hopes  from  seeds  in  sorrow  grown, 

Of  glimpses  of  the  Christ  that  War  revealed, 

I  thank  Thee  for  the  golden  tints  of  dawn 

That  herald  Peace  afloat  on  shimmering  wings, 

I  thank  Thee  most  that  this  great  joy  is  mine 

To  live  as  one  created  by  Thy  Will, 

And  grant  that  future  years  shall  learn  from  me 

A  true  conception  of  Thy  gracious  gifts. 

And  may  the  transient  hours,  my  fleeting  ties 

Be  eloquent  with  thanks  and  holy  prayer. 

Amen. 

Chorus  of  Spirits  of  all  the  past  years  sing 
"Glory  to  God  in  the  Highest,  Hallelujah!" 


CRADLED     MOONS  217 


THE  MASTER  GARDENER. 

From   the   seeds    of    Hate    have    grown    weeds    of    War, 

But  God,  with  an  infinite  art 
Has  grafted  on  them  the  flowers  of  Love 

That  grow  in  the  Depths  of  His  heart. 

And  the  fairest  bloom  of  them  all,  is   Hope, 

Its  petals  are  tinged  with  red, 
But  its  centre  is  rich  with  a  pillow  of  gold, 

The  typified  rest  of  the  dead. 

On  the  rankest  weeds  grow  the  whitest  buds, 

The  blossoms  that  wait  the  Christ-kiss 
Ere  they  open  their  souls  and  awaken  to  see 

The  sun  in  His  garden  of  bliss. 

Oh,  a  rainbow  was  lost  in  a  flower  whose  glow 

Illumines  the  hearts  of  the  Free, 
And   I   saw   in  its   deeps  the  whole  world  at   rest 

With  a  Peace  that  forever  shall  be. 

Yea,  a  thousand  blooms  by  the  Master-hand 

Engrafted  on  weeds  of  War 
Have   blossomed   and   blown,   and    the    winds    He    rules 

Have   scattered  their  seeds   afar. 

From  the  seeds  of  Hate  have  grown  weeds  of  War, 

But  tomorrow,  those  wind-sown  seeds 
Shall  blossom  in  Love,  and  the  whole  round  world 

Shall  joy  in  the  perfect  meads. 


218  CRADLED     MOONS 


THE  SYMBOL  LOVE  CHOSE 

A   RED    CROSS    POEM 

LOVE : — that  sweet  goddess  of  mercy 

Who  holds  the  whole  world  in  her  arms, 
Once  sought  for  a  symbol,  whose  viewing 

Would  prove  to  all  peoples  her  charms ; 
She  searched  in  the  mists  of  the  morning, 

She  reached  in  the  deeps  of  the  sea, 
And  she  swept  the  cerulean  heavens 

To  find  if  sucli  figure  could  be. 

In  the  snow-turret  mountains  she  hunted, 

She  sought  in  the  full  of  the  moon, 
And  she  questioned  the  stars,  but  they  never 

Could  give  her  such  wonderful  boon, 
She  read  of  the  Ages  their  glory, 

Where  the  lights  of  Humanity  gleamed, 
But  not  until   Calvary's  borning 

Came  the  picture  of  thoughts  she  had  dreamed. 

There  she  found  on  that  hill  in  the  desert, 

(A  desert  of  hearts,  not  of  sands.) 
The  emblem  for  which  she  was  looking, 

The  Figure  of  Love  for  all  lands, 
The  Cross  of  the  transfigured  Saviour 

All   stained   from  the  wounds   as   He  bled; 
And  lo ;  the  Creator  had  answered, 

He  gave  her  this  symbol  of  red. 


CRADLED     MOONS  219 


OUR  FLAG 

Let  the  sun  of  Morning  kiss  it,  let  the  Evening  sunset 

glow 
With  a  warmth  of  love  and  gild  it  ere  it  sets  in  depths 

below, 
Let  the  winds  caress  and  fold  it,  let  the  stars  in  glory 

shine 
On   the   emblem   of   Our    Country,   loved   as   your   flag, 

loved  as  mine. 

Let  the  voices  of  our  children  sing  the  music  of  its  soul, 
Chant  its  chorus  O,  ye  people,  till  the  mountain  echoes 

roll, 
Sing  and  shout  its  hymn  of  Freedom,  fling  its  spirit  to 

the  breeze 
Till  the  notes   are  caught  and  answered  in  the  hearts 

across  the  seas. 

Let  no  thought  or  deed  unworthy  smirch  its  stripes  of 

purest  white, 
Let   no   stain   of   craven   silence   rob    its    red   of   lustre 

bright, 
Let    no    shame    bedim    the    star-shine    on    its    field    of 

heavenly   blue, 
For   it's    OUR   FLAG,   friend,   it's    OUR   FLAG;   I'm 

proud  of  it; — are  YOU? 


220  CRADLED     MOONS 


MY  COUNTRY 

My  Country  is  the  World — the  whole  round  World ; 
I  scorn  the  boundaries  of  State, 
I  hate  the  narrowness  of  Hate, 
The  Empire-dreams  of  Would-be-great, 
The  cabined  soul,  the  shallow  pate 
Of  one-land  folk  I  hate  !— I  hate !  ! 


My  Country  is  the  World — the  whole  round  World; 
The  soil,  the  mould-damp  soil  awakes 
The  life  in  countless  seeds,  and  makes 
An  Eden  of  the  blooms.     The  brakes 
That  skirt  the  borders  of  the  lakes 
Share  in  the  life  each  bloom  partakes. 

So  I,  a  child  of  the  whole  round  World, 
Share  with  the  black  in  £he  tropic  sun, 
With  my  brother-man  where  the  ice-streams  run, 
The  gifts  of  the  Master-soul,  begun 
With  the  breath  called  Life,  that  made  ALL  one, 
With  the  Love  that  drew  from  oblivion 
The  WTorld— MY  Country. 


THE  SUNSET  FLAG 

There  was  red  in  the  sky  at  even, 

There  were'clouds  of  a  fleecy  white 
As  the  deep,  blue  dome  of  Heaven 

Was  kissed  by   approaching  night, 
There  were  stars  in  the  eastern  circle 

That  blinked  at  the  fading  sun, 
And  the  distant  shadowed  hilltops 

Gave  proof  of  the  dark  begun. 


CRADLED     MOONS  221 


There,  was  joy  in  my  soul  at  even, 

For  I  saw  in  the  dying  day 
A  picture  the  Master  painted 

And  set  in  the  sky  for  aye, 
The  glorious  colors  of  Freedom, 

The  Red  of  my  Country's  heart, 
The  White  of  her  pure  soul-purpose, 

The  Blue  of  her  human  art. 

And  I  saw  in  the  Master's  blending, 

My  Flag  and  your  flag,  sublime, 
Outlined  in  the  sky  at  even, 

Unfurled  to  the  end  of  Time, 
And  I  bowed  my  head  and  worshipped, 

And  prayed  that  my  life  would  be 
A  mirror,  reflecting  those  colors 

God  placed  in  the  sky  for  me. 


TRUE  PATRIOTISM. 

Not  in  the  belching  cannon's  roar, 

Not  in  the  piper's  lay, 
Not  in  the  flag  which  we  adore, 

Nor  yet  in  holiday; 
Not  in  the  fulsome  studied  speech, 

Not  in  the  pomp  and  show, 
Not  in  the  rocket's  sizzling  screech, 

Nor  in  the  fire's  glow; 
But  in  the  heart  where  doth  abound 

A  nobler,  finer  plan, 
Where  Country's  weal  is  the  profound 

And  holy  love  for  man ; 
There  is  the  future's  heritage. 

There  is  our  Country's  hope, 
There  doth  the  patriot's  true  gauge 

Confound  the  misanthrope. 


222  CRADLED     MOONS 


BUILD    ME   A  LODGE 

Build  me*  a  lodge  in  the  mountain  tops, 
Build  'midst  the  silences  of  night 

For  me   alone, 

Build  where  Hate's  blistered  war-gleaned  crops 
Are  lost  in  the  intervals  of  sight, 

To  me  not  grown. 

Build  me   a   lodge   in  the   swaying  pines, 
Build  where  the  unchained  north-wind  blows 

For  me  a  song, 

Build  where  the  sin  in  my  heart's  confines 
Finds  grave  that  is  deep   in  the  riven  snow, 

Yea   deep   and   strong. 

Build  me  a  lodge  in  the  wilderness, 

Build  where  the  birds  of  the  morning  come 

With  pristine  notes, 

Build  near  some  cave-like  rock  recess, 
Some  Nature-reared  palladium 

That  peace  promotes. 

Build  me  a  lodge  'midst  the  scraggy  oaks, 
Build  where  the  wind-swirled  leaves   are   dead 

But  not  to  me.  • 

Build  where  each  minute  twig  invokes 
The  thought  of  the  Cause  in  the  overhead 

Infinity. 

Build  me  a  lodge  where  the  ages  blend, 
Build  where  the  yesteryears  are  one 

With  present  hours, 

Build  me  a  lodge  where  the  sky-deeps  lend 
A  glimpse  of  the  endless  All,  begun 

Through  Spirit  powers. 


CRADLED     MOONS  223 


THE    UNFOLDING    WILL 

I  spake;  lo,  my  voice  was  heard  in  Cathay. 

Oh,  strange  are  the  deeds  of  men ! 

A  dream  from  the  past  fulfilled, 
And  a  voice  called  out  from  that  Far-a-way 

And  answered  me  again 

Ere   my  own   word-tones   were   stilled, 

Now   the   harnessed  waves   of   the   air-seas   teem 

With  the  spoken  thought  of  man, 

Oh,  the  great  round  world  is  small, 
No  more   shall   men   laugh   at  a   poet's   dream 

Since   Mind  lias  bridged  the   span 

That   has   separated   all. 

And   I've   dreamed  of  the  time  that   shall  surely   come, 

Whether  in  my  day  or  not, 

All  despite  the  skeptic's   doubt, 
When  the  ether  space  as  a  medium 

Will  carry  our  earnest  thought 

To  the   planets   round  about. 

And  I've  dreamed  beside  of  a  future  year 

When  the  visions  of  men  are  keen 

And   Space   shall  its   curtains   raise, 
When  the  eye  shall  hold  the   far-friend  near 

And  the  distant  lands  be  seen, 

Yes,  worlds  by  our  finite  gaze ! 


If  the  up-start  clay  hath  dreamed  and  won 
Far  more  than  mere   dreams   give   rein, 
And  the  Earth  holds  secrets  still, 

,\s   sure  as  there's  light  in  the  constant  sun 
So  sure  shall  all  things   be  plain 
To  man's  dominating  will. 


224  CRADLED     MOONS 


THE    BRAVEST    MAN 

God !  but  it  takes  a  man  to  stand 
Firm  as  a  rock  midst  troubled  seas 
When  doubts  assail  on  every  hand 
When   friends   depart   and   honor   flees ; 
When  foes  exult  and  cowards  sneer, 
When  soft-lived  men  deny  and   rail, 
And  even  fools  at  wise  men  leer, 
He  is  a  man  who  does  not  quail. 

God !  but  it  takes  a  man  to  be 

Calm  as  the  deep  when  torrents  roar, 

When  some  loved  soul  proves  Pharisee 

And  passes  by  f orevermore ; 

When  Poverty  stalks  grim,  and  rules 

Because  of  principles,  unshared, 

WThen   Wrong,  through   precedent,  befools, 

He  is   a  man  who  stands  declared. 


God!  but  it  takes  a  man  who  knows, 
And  knowing,  rights  the  age's   wrong, 
Who  stands  alone  and  overthrows 
The  moss-back  doctrines  of  the  throng ; 
When   Piety  deplores   his  might. 
And   lifts   its   hands   to  out-grown  gods, 
When  pulpits  rage  and  proselyte, 
It  takes  a  man  to  stand  the  odds. 

God !  but  it  takes   a  man  who  moves 
Straight  to  the  line  marked  to  the  goal 
When  others   follow  time-worn  grooves, 
When  Custom's  marks  have  seared  the  soul ; 
When  others  live  in  ease,  and  laugh 
The  bravest  man  who  dares,  to  scorn, 
When  few  will  speak  in  Right's  behalf. 
Then  is  the  time  when  manhood's  born ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  225 


WHAT   IS   A   FRIEND? 

(Two  Answers) 

1.  A    friend    is    one    soul    which    oft-times    dwells 

Within  two  bodies,  separate, 
And  fills  the  deepest  hidden  wells 
With  Love  that's  all  compassionate. 

2.  A   friend   is   two   souls   which   make   their   nest 

Where  one  was  wont  to  dwell  before, 
The  winds  of  hate  cannot  molest 
Nor  blow  defiance  at  their  door. 


A  PROVEN  FRIEND 

A   proven   friend   is   like   a   gushing   spring   upon   Life's 

desert  drear, 
Though  the   dead  sands   all-surround   it,  yet  its  waters 

fresh  and  clear 

Invigorate  the  soul; 
We    forget   the    shifting,    burning    sands,    the    ceaseless 

grind,  the  fear, 
When    we    dip    and    drink    from    Friendship's    cup    the 

heaven  of  man  seems  near 

Where  Love  is  in  control. 


226  CRADLED     MOONS 


REALIZATION 

I   have   found   a   Poet; — 
I,  who   for  long 

Have    sought    fulfillment    of    my    heart's    desire, 
A  true   companion  to  my   singing  lyre, 
Seeing  the  base  and  falsifying  fire 
Leap  into  gorgeous  flame,  and  die, — for  hire ! 
Straining  my  ears  for  harmonies  of  song, 
Seeking  to  prove  the  lesser  singers'  dream, 
Reaching  for  diamonds  where  I   saw  a  gleam, 
Finding  but  meaner  gems ;  so  few  supreme 
Prayers   in  the  poet's   fane,  some  near  blaspheme. 

I    have    found   a   Poet ; — 

How  my  soul  leaped 

With  the  winging  music  of  her  rhythmic  beat, 
And  yesteryears,  (thought  worthless,  incomplete,) 
Like    Hopes   incarnate,  march   with  joyous    feet, 
Whilst  I,  I  follow  on  a  golden  street; 
O,  Heart  of  mine,  at  last  I've  reaped 
In  fulness,  harvest  of  the  planted  seed, 
Food  for  my  soul,  sufficient  for  its  need. 
And  by  the  sluggish  waters  where  I  feed, 
My  vibrant  song  is  pulsed  by  singing  reed. 


CRADLED     MOONS  227 


THE  JEWELED  TREES 

There  was  snow  on  the  streets  at  even, 

Though   March  was  a   full  week  spent, 
There  was  sleet  in  the  air  at  even, 

Though   passed  was   a  half   of   Lent, 
When  the  kiss  of  a  dying  Winter, 

(God  wot  that  its  day's  at  end,) 
Yea,  the  kiss  of  a  traitorous  Winter 

Made  the  trees  with  ice  to  bend. 


And  the  sun  of  a  glorious  morning 

Awoke  to   a   trillion   suns 
That  greeted  the   eyes   of   morning, 

(Those  eyes  not  the  only  ones,) 
For  the  Poet,  in  rapture  gazing 

Saw  jewels  in  filigrees 
As   entranced   in   his   wonder,   gazing 

On  the  ice-cased  twigs  of  trees. 

There  were  lights  in  the  jeweled  ribbons 

Found  not  in  the  diamond's  gleam, 
There  were  smiles  in  the  ice-formed  ribbons 

Like  smiles   in  an  infant's  dream, 
There  were  sun-stones,  opals  and  jasper, 

They  were  bound  by  threads  of  gold, 
Oh.  the  Poet  has  dreams  of  jasper, 

Of  such  were  the  Walls,  foretold ! 

And  he   saw   in  the   scene   a  picture 

Of  the  jeweled  trees  of  years, 
When  a  glimpse  of  eacli  youth-lost  picture 

Gleams  forth  from  the  crystalled  tears, 
And  the  sun  of  another  Morning 

Reveals  to  a  new-born  sight 
The  jewels  that  crown  Heaven's  morning 

When  Life's  storms  have  passed  with  night. 


228  CRADLED     MOONS 


THE  HOPES  OF  SPRING 

There's  a  mellow  warmth  in  the  soft  south  wind. 

When  snows   of  the  north  have  fled, 

The   gods  be  thanked   for   Spring; 

(Thus  we  of  the  East-climes  sing) 
There  are  no  regrets   for  the  days  behind, 

But  there's  joy  in  the  days  ahead, 

Oh,  joy  in  the  Hopes  of  Spring! 

As  an  incense  burned  in  a  golden  bowl 

Casts   spells  of  divining  power 

And  opens  the  Future's  gates, 

So  the  wind  from  the  south  creates 
A  mystic  spell  o'er  the  poet's   soul, 

A  vision  of  tree  and  flower 

In  bloom  beside  jasper  gates. 

And  the  south  wind  brings  to  the  poet's  soul 
A  dream*  of  a  golden  strand, 
And  mirrors  the  sun-sprite's  smile 
Who  dwells  in  the  climes  worth  while, 

For  the  dreamer's   dream  marks  the  poet's  goal 
In  the  days  of  the  near-at-hand, 
'Tis  the  land  where  the  sun-sprites  smile. 


CRADLED     MOONS  229 


O  NOBLE  DEAD 

O  noble  dead  who  rest  beneath  the  sod 

Or  sleep  in  peace  below  the   surging  sea, 
Whose  souls  are  merged  with  the  eternal  God, 

Who  know  the  truths  of  life's  eternity; 
Whose  deeds  while  in  the  finite,  earth-born  clay 

Gave  proof  to  us  of  innate  nobleness 
Which   we,  the   living,   recognize  today 

With  chastened  hearts  through  memory's  bitterness 
We   honor   thee. 

We  plant  the  sweetest  blooms  upon  each  grave, 

We  scatter  blossoms  o'er  the  ocean's  breast, 
Remembering  the  toll  of  lives  which  saved 

Our  country  from  destruction,  manifest. 
We  see  again  the  cruel  hand  of  Death 

Steal  from  our  midst  the  fairest  of  the  fair, 
And  as  we  gaze  in  fear  with  bated  breath 

We  wonder,  weep,  and  question  in  despair, 
And  honor  thee. 

O  noble  dead  who  died  for  Country's  weal, 

Words  are  mere  mouthings  which  cannot  express 
The  gratitude  which  we,  united,  feel 

For  your  brave  spirit  of  true  nobleness. 
There  is  no  North,  no  South,  no  sundered  twain, 

No  mailed  coat  of  blue,  no  garb  of  gray, 
But  all   are  one,  in  unity  again, 

All  reverently  keep  this  holy  day, 
And  honor  thee. 


230  CRADLED     MOONS 


HALLOWE'EN  IS  HERE 

Ghosts, and  spooks  are  floating  round, 

Sh— — ,  Sh— — , 
Move  and  flitter  without  sound, 

o  IT         .  o  ii         • 
Doors  are  swinging  to  and   fro, 
Bells  are  ringing  soft  and  low, 
Tree  toads   croak  and  roosters  crow, 

Hallowe'en  is  here. 


Witches  riding  through  the  air, 

Sh ,  Sh , 

Bats  are  flying  everywhere, 

Sh ,  Sh , 

Old  maids  search  the  silvered  glass, 
When  the   witching  hours   pass, 
Every  year  the  same,  alas, 

Hallowe'en  is  here. 


Sweet  girls  cringing  in  mad  fright, 

Sh ,  Sh , 

Backing  down  the  cellar  flight, 

Sh ,  Sh , 

Peering  in  the  musty  gloom, 
Fearful  lest  some  shape  assume 
Features  of  a  hapless  groom, 

Hallowe'en  is  here. 

Jack-o-lanterns  bobbing  past, 

Sh ,  Sh , 

Sheeted  forms  a-running  fast, 

Sh ,  Sh , 

Wilted  youths   are  diving  deep 
Crab  apples  to  bite  and  keep, 
Old   folks   losing  beauty  sleep, 

Hallowe'en  is  here. 


CRADLED     MOONS  231 


AM  I  THANKFUL? 


I    wonder   if    I'm   thankful    for   the   blessings   that    God 

sends, 
Am    I    thankful   for   my   health,   my   home,   and   all   my 

loving   friends, 
Am  I  thankful  for  my  other  self  I've  known  for  years 

as  wife,  » 

Am   I   thankful   for   the   children   who'll   perpetuate   my 

life; 
Am   I   thankful   for  the   food  I  eat,  and  raiment  that   I 

wear, 
Am    I    thankful    for   the   joys    of   life   and   happiness    I 

share, 
Am    I    thankful    for    the    birds    and    trees    and    sunny, 

smiling  skies, 
Am  I  thankful  for  the  books  I  read,  the  ripe  fruits  of 

the  wise? 


I  wonder  if  I'm  thankful  for  the  life  which  I  possess, 

Am  I  thankful  that  my  soul  is  never  steeped  in  bitter 
ness, 

Am  I  thankful  for  the  work  I  find  each  week  day  must 
be  done. 

Am  I  thankful  for  the  hope  that's  mine  of  honors  to 
be  won ; 

Am  I  thankful  for  the  tears  I  shed  of  sorrow  and  of 
pain, 

Am  I  thankful  for  each  small  success  my  humblest  ef 
forts  gain ; 

Am  I  thankful  for  inspiring  thoughts  which  elevate  the 
mind, 

Am  I  thankful  that  I'm  human  and  like  others  of  my 
kind? 


232  CRADLED     MOONS 

If  I  am  not,  oil  grant,  dear  God,  that  in  thy  holy  way 
Thou    wilt    implant   into   my    soul   a    real    Thanksgiving 

Day. 
Oh    teach    me    how    to    show    my    thanks    for    all    which 

Thou  dost  give, 

That  I  may  in  the  future  years- a  thankful  spirit  live. 

Amen. 


THE   HALLOWED  HOUR 

No  witch  hath  power  to  charm  the  hour 
Which   marks   our   Saviour's   birth. 

No  eery  ghosts,  no  armed  hosts 
Of  evil  ride  the  earth. 
Hallelujah! 

So  hallowed  then,  the  time  again, 

That  naught  but  pure  thought  thrives, 

The  dawn  of  day  proclaims  Love's  sway, 
And  good  alone  survives. 
Hallelujah! 

The  angel's  word  which  shepherds  heard 

Hath  been  in  truth  fulfilled, 
What  wise  men  sought  this  hour  hath  brought, 

As  God  Himself  hath  willed. 
Hallelujah! 

Let  Heralds  sing  that  Christ  is  King, 

Go,  demons,  hide  in  fear, 
Your  reign  is  o'er,  and  ever  more 

The  Saviour  reigneth  here. 
Hallelujah! 


CRADLED     MOONS  233 


"THE   SPIRIT  GIVETH   LIFE" 

"Xot   of  tin-   letter,   but   of  ilic   S/nrif;  for   flic   letter  killefli, 
hut  tin   S/iirif   (fireth  life." — 2  CORINTHIANS,  III.  6. 

Men  spake  to  me  of  Christmas, — 

And  I ; — well,  I  tossed  my  head 

And  laughed,  then  sneering,  said, 

"Christmas? — huh! —  a  pack  of  fools 

The  whole  of  you ! — The  rot  of  schools 

Of  medieval  time 

Is  Christmas, — a  pleasing  mime 

To  babish  minds, 

Its  tinsel  blinds 

The  eyes  of  Thought, 

'Tis  rot, — rot, — all  rot; 

And  not  for  me ! 

Gifts, — baubles, — gold, — Christmas  ! 

Wreathes, — holly, — symbolic  waste  ! 

Vice  makes  a  show  of  seeming  chaste; 

Yes! — I've  seen  the  weaved  leaves 

Decorate  the  dens  of  thieves ! 

And  hellish  holes 

That  steal  men's  souls 

Adorn  their  fronts  with  twisted  green, 

That's  what  I've  seen. 

You're  fools  ! — the  lot, 

'Tis  rot, — rot, — rot, — all  rot 

And  not  for  me !" 

God  spake  to  me  of  Christmas, 

And  I, — well,  I  bowed  my  head 

And  prayed;  and  lo,  the  Man-Christ  said 

Within  me,  "Thou  art  the  fool ! 

Not  by  the  letter  doth  the  Spirit  rule. 

Men's  outward  show 


234  CRADLED     MOONS 

Reflects  the  glow 

That  lights  their  souls  with  God's  own  fire, 

'Tis  His  desire 

Men  joy, — and  fraught 

With  Thought, — Thought — God's  Thought; 

O,  blind  one,  see !" 

My  gift ! — I  see  in  meanest  toy 

The  Wise-men  kneeling  to  the  Boy ; 

I  see  behind  the  ribboned  wreath 

That  Vice  has  placed,  the  Prayer  beneath, 

The  thrill  of  Hope 

In  souls  that  grope, 

The  unlocked  Door  that  beckons,  "Come!" 

The  vice-burned  heart's  residuum ; 

The  Soul  Christ  sought, 

In  Christmas,  sought; — And  Thought, — my  thought, 

Has  shamed  me ! 


THE   HOLLY   THORNS 

Oh,  Love  is  the  soul  of  Christmas, 

And  Hope  is  its  message  sweet, 
There  is  joy  in  the  heart  at  Christmas, 

God  speaks  in  a  life  complete. 
The  children  of  men  are  singing, 

Oh,  never  such  cause  for  song, 
And  the  light  of  the  Babe  is  shining 

Through  eyes  of  the  happy  throng. 

The  log  on  the  hearth  is  kindled. 

And  a  welcome  is  writ  in  fire 
For  those  who  were  gone  a  season 

And  returned  to  their  hearts'  desire. 
The  gleam  of  symbolic  candles, 

The  weavings  of  holly  leaves. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  235 

Are  the  voicings  of  the  s])irit 
Tliat  ever  to  Christmas  cleaves. 

Oh,  there's  joy,  yes  joy,  in  Christmas, 

But  even  the  holly  pricks, 
And  the  melted  wax  on  candles 

Like  tears   falls   from  burning  wicks. 
There  are  hearths  where  the  log  is  dampened, 

There  are  homes  where  each  pulsing  breath 
Reminds  of  the  soul  whose  Christmas 

Is  spent  in  the  arms  of  Death. 

There  are  voiceless  prayers  for  courage 

To  bear  coming  Yuletide  through, 
There  are  yearning  hopes  for  something 

To  prove  of  the  new  life  true. 
There  are  fathers  and  mothers  and  children 

That  ask,  and  the  echoes  are  still 
Save  for  ringing  of  bells  and  music 

That  make  for  another's  good  will. 

There's  a  void  in  the  heart  of  the  poet, 

There's  a  break  in  the  perfect  ring, 
There's  a  minor  note  in  his  music, 

His  fires  are  smouldering. 
There  are  tears  when  there  would  be  laughter, 

There  are  poems  of  joy  unsaid, 
For  the  song  that  was  his  last  Christmas 

Is  now  but  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Yes,  Love  is  the  soul  of  Christmas, 

And  Hope  is  its  message  sweet, 
There  is  joy  and  there's  pain  at  Christmas 

And  ever  the  two  shall  meet. 
Though  Love  is  o'er  shadowed  by  sorrow, 

Yet  Hope  is  still  ,seen  through  fears, 
In  the  homes  of  the  broken-hearted 

Where  Christmas  is  one  of  tears. 


236  CRADLED     MOONS 


BELLS   O'   NEW  YEAR 

To  the  rhythm  of  the  breeze 

Ring  clear  O  Bells,  your  swinging  song, 
A  burdened  year  has  passed  along, 
God  grant  the  new  will  right  each  wrong 
And  bring  true  joy  to  all, 
Yea,  peace,  good  will  to  all ! 

To  -the  beat  of  martial  tread 

Ring  bold,  O  Bells,  your  message  now, 
Give  hope  to  those  who  meekly  bow 
To  despots,  lest  a  Freeman's  vow 

Make  Babylon  to  fall, 

And  crush  them  in  its  fall ! 

To  the  blast  of  thunder  guns 

Ring  strong,  O  Bells,  ring  strong  and  clear, 
Let  triumpli  notes  awake  the  year, 
Ring  freedom  to  the  Huns  who  fear 

To  break  the  tyrant's  thrall, 

A  cursed,  stinging  thrall. 

To  the  whines  of  hurtling  shells 

Ring  loud,  O,  Bells,  drown  solemn  tone 
Of  Coward's  dirge  and  Money's  groan, 
Wake  echoes  that  shall  rock  each  throne 
And  cause  them  all  to  fall, 
O,  God !  that  all  would  fall ! 

To  the  harmonies  of  Time 

Ring  sweet,  O,  Bells,  such  music  blends 
Eternity  with  Now,  and  lends 
Its  peace  to  him  who  comprehends 
That  men  and  years  are  small, 
And  monarchs,  too,  are  small. 


CRADLED     MOONS  237 


A  NEW  YEAR'S  THOUGHT 

What  does  the  New  Year  hold  in  store  for  me, 

What  hopes,  what  joys,  what  peace  is  mine  to  be? 

Will  Providence,  who  holds  the  gauge  of  years 

Within  the  hollow  of  His  hand,  lend  ears 

And  heed  my  shallow  importunities 

That  this,  the  coming  year,  shall  bend  its  knees 

To  my  imperious  and  boastful  will, 

And  ward  from  me  each  dark,  impending  ill? 

I  know  not  what  the  New  Year  brings,  nor  dare 

Attempt  to  read  its  portent  scroll ;  if  fair 

Its  prospects  are,  I  shall  rejoice  indeed. 

If  storm  clouds  loom,  shall  I  then  cringe  and  plead 

For  fairer  skies? — God  grant  I'll  play  the  man 

And  take  what  comes,  conformable  to  plan. 


THE  UNKNOWN  TREK 

Ye  passed  not  this  way  heretofore, 

Prepare  thyself  for  pleasant  lanes, 
But  if  perchance  thy  Fate  ordains 
Thy  paths  to  lie  'midst  arid  plains, 

Go  singing  as  a  troubadour. 

Ye  passed  not  this  way  heretofore, 

Prepare  thy  soul  for  mighty  deeds, 

And  e'en  though   Doubt-land's   bog  impedes, 

'Tis  bridged  by  Affirmation's  reeds 

Enough  to  reach  Achievement's  shore. 


238  CRADLED     MOONS 

Ye  passed  not  this  way  heretofore, 

Prepare  thy  heart  for  Heaven's  bliss. 
But  shouldst  thou  find  its  blessing  miss 
And  Sorrow  greets  thee  with  a  kiss, 

Search  out  thy  Hope-star's  rays  once  more. 

Ye  passed  not  this  way  heretofore, 
Prepare  to  live,  prepare  to  die, 
Accept  thy  lot,  nor  question  why ; 
The  Dead  Past  land  is  left  for  aye, 

The  unknown  trek  is  thine, — explore ! 


THE  MAN  WITH  THE  FIXED  IDEA 

Oh  give  me  the  man  with  the  fixed  idea, 

Who  knows  his  world  is  round, 
Who  sails  the  seas  of  doubt  and  fear 

And  seeks  till  he  has  found; 
Who  braves  the  tempests  of  despair. 

And  flouts  the  scornful  throng, 
Whose  God  is  Hope,  whose  trust  is  Prayer. 

Whose  idea  can't  be  wrong. 

Oh  give  me  the  man  who  sees  the  goal 

Though   distant,  dim   and   small, 
Loom  large  to  the  eyes  of  his  hopeful  soul. 

Who  never  gives  up  at  all. 
Who  knows  that  beyond  the  doubter's  zone 

A  new   world  beckons   "Come," 
I  honor  that  man  though  he  stands  alone 

In  social  martvrdom. 


CRADLKD     MOONS 


THE  SPIRIT  OF  GOD 

I  thought  I  understood  the  gift 

Of  drawing  near  to   God, 
I  thought  I  knew  the  joyful  bliss 

That  comes  from  paths  I've  trod 
In  spiritual  ways, 

But  I  have  found  that  gifts  I  own 

Are  not  like  misted  sky, 
But  winged  Love  from  souls  that  sing 

Their  songs  to  such  .as   I 

In  Life's  secluded  day. 

I  felt  that  God  was  near  to  all, 
But  how,  I  could  not  know,      I 

I   trusted  blindly,  seeming  still 
To  see  no  light  below, 

But   drifting   clouds    have    shown 

The  Spirit  land  in  Heaven's  sky, 

With  joys  that  God  reveals 
To  those  whose  souls  are  one  with  Him 

Where  each  His  presence  feels 
And  each  is  God's  alone. 


THE   WONDER-SPRAY 

Oh,    there's    joy    in   the    spume    and    the   wonder-spray 

That  beats  on  the  steamer's  prow 
As  it  sails  the  seas  on  the  homeward  way 

To  the  land  that  the  gods  endow, 
For  a  Freeman's  years  'neath  a  tropic  sun 

Where  the  "Chinks"  and  the  brown  men  thrive, 


•240  CRADLED     MOONS 

Are  the  years  of  "Must,"  with  a  thought  but  one, 

The  hope  to  return  alive; 
So  there's  joy  in  the  spume  and  the  wonder-spray 

As  it  mists  on  the  fevered  brow 
Of  the  traveller  bound  on  his  homeward  way 

To  the  land  that  the  gods  endow. 


CUB   LOVE 

I   am  thinking  tonight  of  the  sweethearts   I   had 

In  my  youthful,  impressible  age, 
And  I  laugh  as  I  glance  through  Life's  book  at  the  lad 

Whose  picture  I  see  on  each  page. 


I  remember  quite  well  every  sweet  little  miss 
Who  appealed  to  a  boy's  tender  lieart. 

And  I'll  never   forget  the   first  innocent  kiss 
Which  a  maid  of  fifteen  did  impart. 


And  on  every  page  I  can  still  read  each  name, 

Such  sweet  little  forms  I  can  see 
Standing  out  in  relief,  bold,  distinct,  and  the  same 

As  when  they  spelled  "ONLY"  to  me. 


The  first  one  I  note  is  a  fairy-like  face, 

With  eyes  of  the  lovliest  blue, 
A  form  most  divine  and  embodied  with  grace, 

A  picture  that's  equalled  by  few. 


CRADLED     MOONS  241 

I  was  but  a  boy  of  a  dozen  years  old, 

Even  then  yellow  locks  and  blue  eyes 
Seemed  to   dazzle   me   more   than   could   riches   or   gold, 

And  my  first  love  I  did  not  disguise. 

But  the  "Angel  of  Death"  came  and  stole  her  away. 

Life  seemed  but  a  blank  then,  at  best, 
And  though  years  have  since  flown,   I   remember  today 

Her  face  and  the  wav  she  was  dressed. 


But  time  rolls  along,  and  cures  all  our  ills, 

And  a  boy's   heart,  though   cracked,  can   be   patched, 

And  my  own,  I'll  confess,  responded  to  thrills 
For  another  sweet  girl  unattached. 


I  was  fifteen  or  so,  and  she  was  the  same, 

I  first  saw  her  when  taking  a  dip 
In  the  old  Baptist  church,  where  the  waters  reclaim 

Poor  sinners  from  Satan's  tight  grip. 

With   her   flowing   white   robe    and   her   chestnut   brown 
hair, 

Can  you  wonder  that  I  did  succumb? 
I  felt  that  my  fate  was  decided  right  there, 

.My  heart  seemed  to  beat  like  a  drum. 


Then  some  pretext  I   found  to  make  myself  known, 

I   remember  I   "shined  up"  to  "Ma," 
And  soon  this  young  queen  had  ascended  Love's  throne, 

And  seemed  to  be  Love's  ruling  star. 


I  smile  now  a  bit  as  I'm  writing  this  line, 
When  I  think  of  the  first  kiss  I  stole. 

As  she  said  "No"  to  me  in  a  manner  divine, 
Yet  helped  me  attain  that -sweet  goal! 


242  CRADLED     MOONS 

I  don't  quite  remember  our  drifting  apart, 

Yet  I  know  that  another  fair  maid 
Soon  usurped  throne  and  love  of  that  queen  of  my  heart, 

And  I  to  the  new,  homage  paid. 

I  really  was  smitten  by  Cupid  this  time, 

And  love  unreturned,  was  my  fate, 
She  looked  like  an  angel  from  Heaven,  sublime, 

But  me  she  could  not  tolerate ! 

I  sent  some  sweet  roses  on  her  natal  day. 

There  were  eighteen,  all  pretty  and  white, 
And  I  really  believe  she  gave  them  away 

And  laughed  at  the  sender  outright. 

-That's  the  way  often  times,  what  you  want  you  don't 
get, 

Though  tonight  I  can  truthfully  say 
'Tis  well  that  I  failed,  for  since  then  I  have  met 

The  right  one,  who's  Mrs.  today. 

I   can  see  in  Life's  book,  full  a  score  whom  I  thought 
Would  some  day  be  cooking  my  meals, 

But  betwixt  you  and  me  not  a  one  in  the  lot 
For  a  moment  to  me  now  appeals. 

Some    were   light,    some    were    dark,    some    were    short, 
some   were  tall, 

And  each  had  a  charm  quite  apart 
From  the  rest  of  their  kind,  though  not  one  had  all 

The  things  which  appealed  to  my  heart. 

And  somehow  I  think  as  I  look  round  and  see 

The  loved  ones  who  now  fill  my  life, 
That  God  had  ordained  and  given  to  me 

The  best  in  the  world  for  mv  wife. 


CRADLED     MOONS  243 


THE   DAISY   TOLD  A  LIE 

I   asked  a  pretty  maiden, 

So  simple  and  so  shy. 
If  she  thought  that  she  could  love  me, 

If  not,  the  reason  why? 

She  drooped  her  silken  lashes, 
•     I  heard  a  muffled  sigh, 
And  said,   "Kind  sir,  this   daisy 
Has  told  me  not  to  try. 

Each  petal,  pure  and  spotless, 
From  Heaven's  dew  scarce  dry, 

Is  blest  with  mystic  virtues 
Which  for  true  love  apply. 

\Vlien  torn  from  off  its  centre 

Of  brilliant,  golden  dye, 
They   answer  me   quite   truly, 

All   doubts   they   clarify. 

These   fragile,  scattered   petals 
I   plucked  as   you  came  nigh 

Proved  from  the  love  you  offer 
.My  tender  heart  must  fly." 

0  cruel,  wicked  flower ! 

As  I  gazed  into  her  eye, 

1  saw  the  love-light  gleaming, 
The  daisv  told  a  lie. 


244  CRADLED     MOONS 


WHEN    MARY    MAKES  THE    BREAD 

When  Mary  makes  the  bread  there  gleams 

A  glad,  triumphant  light 
Within  her  eyes  which  somehow  seems 

To  taunt  me  as  I   write. 

I  see  her  with  her  sleeves  rolled  high, 

With   gingham   apron,  neat, 
Her  fingers  deftly  knead,  while  I 

Am  marveling  at  her  feat.  « 

A  picture  sweet  she  makes,  I  think, 

With  flour  on  her  nose, 
Her   cheeks   a  glowing,  wholesome   pink, 

A-blushing  like  a  rose. 

Her  hair  in  ringlets  soft  and  brown 

Adds  beauty  to  the  scene, 
What  though  there's  dough  upon  her  gown, 

Her  heart,  I'm  sure,  is  clean. 

But  poets   are  mere  mortal  men, 

And  I  am  like  the  rest, 
For  while  these  beauteous   charms   I   ken, 

I  like  her  product  best. 

And  though  I  tease  and  say  she  bakes 

Her  bread  as  hard  as  stone, 
I'm  mighty  pleased  whene'er  she  makes 

A  batch  of  bread  alone. 

And  I  am  sure  that  you'll  agree, 

That  after  all  is  said, 
And  you  have  dined  or  lunched  with  me, 

Our  Mary  CAN  make  bread. 


CRADLED     MOONS  245 

• 

PREVARICATING  MARY 

Mary  told  a  little  lie, 

It  wasn't   very   wrong, 
And  then  she  told  another  one 

To  help  the  first  along! 

The  second  was  not  very  bad 

But  paved  the  way  for  more, 
And  soon  to  make  her  stories  jibe 

Sweet  Mary  told  a  score. 

• 

Like  others  who  have  tried  this  game, 

(I'm  one,  without  a  doubt), 
Our   Mary  learned  that  one  fine  day 

Her  lies  had  been  found  out. 

Now  what  will  little  Mary  do? 

Her  stock  of  tales  runs  low, 
Perhaps  the  truth  will  help  a  bit, 

I  hope*  it  will  prove  so, 

For  Mary  is  a  real  good  girl 

Despite  those  naughty  lies, 
She  looks  and  acts  quite  innocent, 

And  she  has  rougish  eyes. 

And  when  she  smiles  (Lord  bless  my  soul), 

I  lose  my  head  and  heart, 
I  quite  forgive  her  stories  and 

I  lie  to  take  her  part ! 

I've  wondered  oft  if  when  I  die 

And  climb  the  golden  stairs, 
Will  Peter  turn  his  back  on  me 

Or  listen  to  my  prayers  ? 


246  CRADLED     MOOXS 

Will  he  condemn  me  for  the  lies 
Which  I  have  learned  to  tell 

Because  of  her,  this  naughty  wight 
And  pack  me  off  to — well 

I  guess  St.  Pete  will  understand 
And  pass  me  with  a  wink, 

If  lie  but  sees  Miss  Mary  smile 
He'd  lie  himself  I  think ! 


ADVICE   TO   POETS 


Would  you  to   poetry   aspire, 

To  make  yourself  a  name 
And  set  the  people's  hearts  afire, 

Make  common  words  seem  tame  ? 

Would  you  have  folks  to  sigh,  and  say 
When  words  of  yours  they  read, 

"How  wonderful !  how  grand  his  lay !" 
And  make  your  thoughts  their  creed? 

Would  you  have  clubs  named  after  you 

To  study  and  discuss 
The  meanings  hidden  from  their  view; 

Say  "this  and  that  mean  thus"? 


CKADLKtt     MOOXS  '247 

Would  you  a  monument  have  reared, 

When  laid  away  at  rest? 
Would  you  to  thousands  be  endeared 

Who'll  think  of  you  as  blest? 

Wrould  you   have  wealth  in  countless   store 

Your  work  to   compensate, 
And  have  disciples  by  the  score 

Your  life  to  emulate. 


Wrould  you  have  kings  and  queens  bow  down 

Before    your    matchless    wit, 
And  by  your  poems  win  renown 

Ere  you  make  your  exit? 

If  you  would  these  things  bring  about. 

Have   folks   think   you're   immense, 
Just  write  your  poems   all  without 

One  particle  of  sense. 

Just  make   your   meaning  so   obscure 

That   scholars    everywhere, 
Professional  or  amateur, 

To  criticize  won't  dare. 


And  thus  will  you  win  place  and  fame, 
Like  Emerson  and  Browning; 

Remember  they  did  just  the  same, 
Their  readers  did  the  crowning. 


248  CRADLED     MOOXS 

TOLSTOI'S   REPLY   TO   THE    RUSSIAN 
CHURCH 

You  urge  me  to  repent — Aye,  and  of  what 
Shall   I    repent?      What  evil  have   I   done? 
Who  is  there  from  amongst  the  priestly  throng 
Which  has   renounced  me   dares   to  say 
That  I   have  ever  spoken  but  the  truth. 
That  I  have  ever  taught  what  was  not  so, 
Or  that   I   e'er  have   stultified  my   soul 
For  gold  or  gain  ?     And  yet  you  say  repent. 

O,  whited  sepulchres,  whose  outward  forms 

Are  fair  indeed  for  fools  to  gaze  upon. 

Tear  from  your  eyes  that  veil  which  hides  the  sight 

Of  a  new  birth.     A  grand  awakening 

Of    people    free,    unshackled    by    my    might. 

The  bruised  and  shattered  gods  of  ignorance 

Are  lying  all  around,  and  only  you 

Are  blinded  to  the  sight. — Tear  off  that  veil. 

Behold  in  me  a     man  by  God  ordained 

To  preach  humility,  and  peace   and  love. 

To  sacrifice,  if  need  be,  every  thought 

But  that  which  glorifies  the  lowly  soul 

And  makes  the  peasant  of  the  moor  a  king 

As  great  as  he  who  dons  the  royal  robes 

Of  earthly  thrones.     The  thought  that  God  is  Love, 

And  Love,  not  creeds,  can  save  the  peasant's  soul. 

You  urge  me  to  repent.     Of  what,  I  pray? 
Doth  not  the  spirit  of  the  truth  I  preach 
Cause  you  to  blush  and  hang  your  head  in  shame 
To  think  that  while   I'm  on  my  dying  bed 
You  dare  ask  this  of  me  ?     Be  gone,  you  dogs, 
Go  fawn  and  kneel  before  the  robes  of  state, 
But  leave  me  with  my  God.- — I   fear  not  death, 
I've  nothing  to  repent. — YOU  must  repent. 


CRADLED     MOONS  249 

OUR  HOME  IN  THE  WOODS 

Where  the  birds  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  sweetly  sing, 
Where  oaktrees  and  maples  are  sighing, 

Where  the  bright,  brilliant  gleam  of  the  tanager's  wing 
Is  seen  like  a  meteor  flying. 

Where  the  velvet-eyed  deer  romp  from  sunrise  to  dark, 
Where  the  sly,  wicked  fox  shows  his  nose, 

Where  the  whole  out-of-doors  is  as  free  ak  yon  lark, 
Where  you  hear  the  shrill  caw  of  the  crows. 

WThere  the  brooks  gaily  dance  to  their  home  in  the  sea, 
There  are  rough  creviced  rocks  brown  and  bare, 

Where  you  hear  the  dull  buzz  of  the  big  bumble-bee 
As  you  track  the  wild-cat  to  its  lair. 

Where  anemones  grow  and  the  bright  golden-rod 

In  the  Fall  of  the  year  doth  abound. 
Where  the  old  world  seems  rife  with  the  spirit  of  God, 

Where  the  proof  of  His  being  is  found. 

Where  the  soul  is  rejoiced  by  the  evidence  shown 
Of  His  goodness,  in  rock.,  tree  and  flower, 

Where  you  hear  His  voice  speak  in  a  thunderous  tone 
WThen  the  woods  are  refreshed  by  the  shower. 

Where  the  clear,  placid  lake  doth  invite  you  to  rest 
On  its  banks  with  their  mosses  so  green, 

Where   the   spotted   brook-trout   gives   the   fisher's   sport 

zest, 
Where  the  dam  of  the  beaver  is  seen. 

Oh,  we  envy  them  not,  those  whose  souls  are  confined 

In  the  city's  big  mansions  of  stone, 
In  our  home  in  the  woods  there  no  limit  you  find, 

For  all  Nature's  great  world  is  our  own. 


CRADLED     MOONS 


THE  CONFESSION 

We  were  both  wrong; 

Each  believed  the  other's  eyes  were  blinded  to  the  right, 
Each    could    see    the    other's    faults,    despairing   at    the 

sight, 
Each  one  seemed  to  doubt  the  good  which  once  to  them 

appealed, 
And,    doubting,    lost    the   joy    which    Love,    when    true, 

alone  can  yield. 
But  now,  thank   God_,  the  motes   and  beams   have  been 

removed  at  last, 

The  metal  base  of  yester-night,  today  as  gold  is  classed. 
It  took  some  strength,  but  now  we  know  the  bliss  which 

candor  gives,  ' 

Each  heart's  confessed,  contrite,  and  thus,  each  for  the 

other   lives, 
And  both  are  right. 


DEAR  LITTLE  SPRITE 

Dear  little  simple  sprite,  sweet  little  dimpled  mite, 

Golden  your  tresses   and  fine, 
Eyes  of  the  brightest  blue,  lashes  of  lightest  hue, 

Lips  that  are  treasures  divine; 

Smiles   which   supremely    glow    with   lights    that   seemly 
show, 

Cheeks*  like  red  roses  you  own, 
Manners   alluring,  grand;   voice  softly  purring,  and 

Prettiest  features  I've  known. 


CRADLED     MOOXS  251 

Long  has   a   baby  tot  been  my  best   "may-be"   thought, 

One  of  the  feminine  kind. 
Heaven  has  sent  me  boys,  the  Lord  lias  lent  me  joys 

Greater  than  most  of  men  find; 
I'm   not   complaining,   no,   but   love's    remaining   though 

For  such  a  sweet  little  mite, 
You  are  the  kind  I  own,  I've  had  in  mind  alone, 

Dear  little  sweet  dimpled  sprite. 


THE   LOVE   LETTER. 

Thou  art  gone,  my  love,  for  a  little  while  thou  saidst, 
Think'st  thou   my   troubled  heart   to   still   by   these   thy 

words  ? 

With  thee  an  hundred  mile  and  more  from  me,  must  I 
So  patient  wait  against  my  will  for  thy  return  ? 
I  never  knew  how  dear  to  me  were  pure,  sweet  lips 
And  tender  eyes,  and  cheeks  of  rosy  hue,  but  -in 
Thy  absence  now  I  see  more  clearly  all  thy  charms ; 
Like  one  who  sees  the  fount  of  youth,  and  after  youth 
Is  gone,  looks  back  and  sees  the  beauties  of  his  youth 
He  valued  not  while  yet  he  had  them  for  his  own. 

I  sit  alone  tonight,  my  love,  thinking  of  thee. 
Though  hard  my  lot  might  seem  to  be,  I  happy  am. 
Thoughts    in    which    thou    art     the    queen,    I,    smiling 

courtier, 

Ready  to  lay  my  cloak  for  thee  to  tread  upon, 
Are  uppermost.     Oh,  would  some  aged,  hoary  sage 
Or  learned  magi  read  thy  heart  and  truly  tell 
If  I  may  hope  for  future  joy  and  bliss  with  thee. 
Come  home,  my  sweet,  my  own,  my  life.     Thou'lt  surelv 

come, 

And  coming,  end  all  my  despair;  and  then  I'll  be 
Your  king,  your  husband,  slave, — and  you — my  wife. 


CRADLED     MOONS 


MATRIMONY 

Matrimony, — is  it  bliss 
To  surrender  for  a  kiss 
And  a  love-pat  now  and  then 
All  the  joys  of  single  men? 

Matrimony, — is  it  joy 
Happiness  without  alloy, 
To  surrender  girlhood's  life 
To  become  a  drudging  wife? 

Matrimony, — why   do   men 
Once  they're  freed,  repeat  again 
Their  mistake    (if  such  it  be), 
And  forego  their  liberty? 

Matrimony , — why  do  wives 
Spend  insurance  from  the  lives 
Of  the  men  folks  to  acquire 
More  of  love's  consuming  fire  ? 

But,  my  friends,  what  right  have  I 
Into  such  like  secrets  pry, 
Am  I  not  a  married  dolt 
Without  courage  to   revolt? 

Yes,  and  in  my  misery 
I'm  as  happy  as  can  be, 
And  I'm  sure  that  I'd  advise 
Matrimonv  to  the  wise. 


CRADLED     MOONS  253 

CHARLES   DICKKNS 

• 

In  Memoriam. 

Thou  master  of  thought  and  depicter  of  men 
Whose  soul  has  been  burned  in  the  works  of  thy  pen, 
Thy  name  is  a  lever  which  moves  us  again 
To  honor  thy  memory. 

Humanity's  friend  and  the  Commoner's  guide, 

Apostle  of  hope  and  simplicity's  pride, 

Thy  name  shall  endure  till  the  oceans  subside 

And  earth  shows  sterility. 

/ 

No  marble  cut  deep  or  no  labored  stone  pile 
Can  fittingly  tell  of  thy  freedom  from  guile, 
No  ode  poets  write  can  thy  death  reconcile 

To  us  of  obscurity. 

Thou  hast  smitten  the  rock,  and  waters  of  Truth 
Have  gushed  like  the  fount  of  perpetual  youth, 
The  Apple  of  Life  felt  the  print  of  thy  tooth, 
Thou  savant  of  history. 

All  precedent's  form  thou  hast  blasted  like  rock. 
The  pessimist's  caves  of  despair  felt  the  shock, 
Thy  teachings  of  hope  and  thy  sanguineness  mock 
The  false  in  philosophy. 

Great  souls  shall  endure  until  eons  of  years 
Are  gone  like  the  mist  and  the  earth  disappears. 
And  Infinite  Grace  to  which  thy  soul  adheres 
Gives  thee  immortalitv. 


CRADLED     MOOXS 

INDIVIDUALISM 

Oh,  do  you  know  a  man  who  dares 

To  climb  the  lofty  mountain  steeps 
Or  swim  the  mighty  ocean's  deeps 
And  breast  the  tide  where'er  it  sweeps 

In  spite  of  Hell. 

Oh,  do  you  know  that  thoroughfares 
Of  precedent  are  blazed  by  him 
Who  rushes  where  no  seraphim 
Dares  e'en  to  tread  the  outer  brim 

Lest  some  repel. 

Oil,  do  you  think  mistakes  or  cares 

Will  swerve  him  from  his  purpose  high 

To  make  his  efforts  typify 

The  nobler  thoughts  which  underlie 

Each  fearless  deed. 

Oil,  do  you  know  not  one  compares 
To  him  who  by  himself  alone 
Has  made  his  name  and  deeds  be  known 
And  e'en  usurped  the  mighty 's  throne 

In  times  of  need. 

Oh,  do  you  know  a  man  who  bears 

Revilings  and  contumely 

Because  he  shows  effectively 

His  individuality 
In  every  task. 

If  such  you  know  in  life's  affairs. 
Go  hail  him  as  a  citizen 
Of  a  free  world  whose  noblemen 
To  ruts  and  grooves  are  alien 

And  seek  no  mask. 


CRADLED     MOONS 


SUCCESS 

Success  is  in  thinking  and  not  in  mere  wealth, 

And  nothing  is  failure  unless  it  be  health 

That  is  wrecked  by  the  worry  and  care  in  the  strife 

For  money  and  gain  in  the  business  of  life ; 

If  we  throw  all  our  burdens  and  cares  to  the  wind, 

Make  the  most  of  our  joys,  take  the  best  that  we  find, 

Success  is  assured,  though  poverty's  blight 

Has  turned  day-time  hopes  to  the  darkness  of  night. 

The  men  with  the  millions  (which  they've  never  earned) 
Are  oft-times  the  failures  when  rightly  discerned, 
They're  results  of  a  system  which  gives  to  a  class 
The  fruits  of  the  work  of  the  dumb  driven  mass ; 
And  the  disgruntled  folks  who  loudly  inveigh 
Against  those  who  have,  are  in  much  the  same  way, 
Success  is  not  theirs,  and  never  will  be, 
Till  they  think  right,  and  work  for  humanity. 

The  man  who  produces  deserves  our  acclaim, 
Irrespective  of  wealth,  irrespective  of  name, 
Vain-glorious  fools  will  say  "Money  talks," 
But  the  truest  success  such  sophistry  mocks ; 
The  simple  "Well  done,"  when  merited,  brings 
An  honor  which  places  its  earner  with  kings ; 
And  no  man's  a  failure,  nor  can  be,  unless 
He  measures  in  Money  his  thought  of 


256  CRADLED     MOONS 


THE  LAST  CRUISE  OF  THE  WABASH 


List  the  clanking  of  chains  and  the  winch's  shrill  creak, 

"Heave  Ho !"  rings  the  boatswain's  loud  cry, 
The  Wabash  is  sailing,  a  new  berth  to  seek 

Where  none  but  proud  memories  lie ; 
The  old  ship  looks  not  as  in  days  when  her  deck 

Resounded  with  bold  sailors'  tread, 
Not  the  proud  queen  of  yore,  but  a  miserable  wreck 

Bound  now  for  the  port  of  the  dead. 


No  funeral  dirge,  no  salute  from  the  shore, 

No  cannon's  quick  bark  marks  her  close, 
Ungrateful  the  land  whose  banners  she  bore 

In  the  days  when  she  triumphed  o'er  foes, 
Men  say  that  her  timbers  will  go  up  in  flame, 

The  Junk-smith  her  priest  and  her  friend, 
For  a  vessel  that  bears  such  a  glorious  name, 

O,  God,  what  an  end !  what  an  end ! 


The  waves  dance  in  joy  as  they  welcome  again 

Their  comrade  of  days  that  are  flown, 
Those  days  when  she  sailed  with  a  crew  of  brave  men 

And  sought  out  the  war's  fiercest  zone; 
Her  timbers  are  sound  and  respond  with  a  will 

To  the  pulsating  life  of  the  sea, 
Oil  shame  on  the  man  who  can  view  without  thrill 

The  sight  of  her  sad  destiny. 


CRADLED     MOONS  257 

Methinks  I  can  hear  in  the  depths  of  her  hold 

The   moans   of   her   heroes   who   bled 
For    Freedom's    great  cause    when    War's    thunderbolts 
rolled 

And  her  decks  were  like  rivers  of  red; 
Oil  the  hell  then  on  board, — how  the  cannonballs  flayed 

That  old  craft,  yet  no  tinge  of  defeat 
Marred  her  fame  as  she  fought,  undismayed,  unafraid, 

The  bulwark  of  a  wooden  fleet. 


We  prate  much  of  peace,  but  such  vessels  as  she 

Alone  make  our  peace  firm,  secure, 
P'or  peace-builders  are  they  who  are  masters  of  sea, 

And  our  navy  makes  peace  doubly  sure; 
But  the  heart  weeps  and  bleeds  when  some  time-honored 
hulk 

Meets  a  doom  ill-befitting  her  name, 
And  is  sold  to  be  burned  for  the  metal  in  bulk 

Wrhich  rivets  the  joints  of  her  frame. 


O  Angels  on  high,  hide  your  faces  and  blush 

For  an  ungrateful  people  who  heed 
Not  the  glorious  past,  but  who  foolishly  rush 

To  acclaim  some  new  hero  or  deed ; 
Are  men  deaf  to  the  cries  that  I  hear  in  her  hold? 

Can't  they  picture  the  forms  of  her  brave? 
Are  they  blinded  by  wealth  and  its  symbolic  gold 

And  care  not  the  Wabash  to  save? 


Too  late,  noble  ship !  clank  your  chains,  spread  your  sail. 

Bon  Voyage,  and  peace  to  your"  soul, 
I  would  that  the  gods  might  send  you  a  gale 

To  prove  that  your  timbers  are  whole ; 
I  would  that  you'd  find  in  the  depths  of  the  sea 

A  grave  for  your  age-ridden  frame, 
But  whatever  betides,  your  grand  history 

Will  go  down  in  the  annals  of  fame. 


258  CRADLED     MOONS 


TO  THE  MARCH  WINDS 

Blow,  ye   March  Winds, — blow  fiendish-like,  blow, 

What  demons  are  riding  with  thee? 
Who  calls  from  your  depths  as  ye  rush  to  and  fro 

"O  Poet,  come,  come  and  be  free, 
Free — free — free, 

O  Poet,  come,  come  and  be  free." 

Fain  would  I  ride  on  your  swift  winged  crest, 

My  soul  yearns  to  travel  with  thee, 
But  suckling  I  am  on  Mother  Earth's  breast, 

Too  weak,  oh  too  weak  to  be  free. 

Speed  soft  on  your  way,  goad  me  not  as  ye  fly, 

Gods  !  must  I  stop  here  and  be 
A  weakling,  a  babe  in  Eternity's  eye? 

Not  yet,  oh  not  yet  to  be  free. 

Shackled  and  bound  with  the  earth-ties  I  stay, 
Fate's  pawn,  still  my  heart  envies  thee, 

When  Death  breaks  the  bonds  I  will  up  and  away, 
I'll  come,  yes  I'll  come  and  be  free, 

Free — free — free. 
I'll  come,  yes,  I  '11  come  and  be  free. 


CRADLED  MOONS     259 


"CAN  ANY  GOOD  THING  COME  OUT  OF 
NAZARETH?" 

In  this  day  of  book  and  brain, 

When  to  precedent  we  hark, 

And  the  school  and  college  reign 

As  a  mighty  oligarch, 

'Tis  the  rule  to  look  askance 

On  the  efforts  of  the  soul 

Who  has  never  had  a  chance 

To  autograpli  a  college  roll ; 

And  the  query,  "Can  it  be 

That  outside  the  learned's  zone 

Is  a  strange  anomaly 

Lifting  up  his  voice  alone, 

Daring  to  demand  a  share 

Of  the  honors  to  be  won 

In  the  world's  great  thoroughfare 

Open  to  each  noble  son?" 

Such  a  crime  to  contemplate 

Is  more  than  poor  mortal  mind 

Can  in  reason  palliate 

In  the  meanest  of  its  kind. 

E'en  the  lowly  Nazarene 

Should  He  come  on  earth  once  more, 

Would  be  ostracised  I  ween 

As  in  those  dark  days  of  yore,, 

If  He  could  not  boldly  tell 

Where  He'd  taken  a  degree, 

If  He  was  a  B.  E.  L., 

Or  a  learned  LL.  D. 

Mediocrity's  the  same 

In  the  crafts  or  in  the  school, 

And  they  cannot  change  its  name 

When  they  educate  a  fool, 


260  CRADLED     MOOXS 

And  the  thought  that  nothing  great 
Emanates  from  common  men 
Lest  they  be  a  graduate 
Of  some  college  which  we  ken, 
Savors   of  the   Pharisees, 
Whited  sepulchres  which  did 
In  their  outward  beauty  please 
Yet  within  the   dead  bones   hid. 

O  you  holders  of  a  scroll, 
Made  of  sheepskin  and  engrossed, 
Search  into  your  inmost  soul. 
Ask  yourselves  if  what  you  boast 
As  an  evidence  of  power 
Is  not  rather  foolish,  vain, 
And  the  great  men  of  the  hour 
Are  the  ones  who  by  their  brain 
Have  made  good  despite  this   fact 
They've  not  taken  college  course, 
And  their  learning  and  their  tact 
Came  from  quite  another  source. 

Give  the  restive  soul  the  right 
To  express  its  hidden  thought, 
Seek  to  stifle  not  the  might 
Which   obscurity   has   wrought. 
God's  and  Nature's  ways  are  strange, 
Neither  owns  man's  barriers 
When  they  seek  to  best  arrange 
Time  and  place  and  carriers 
Of  the  things  which  shall  enlarge 
Mankind's  mind  and  intellect, 
Many  of  their  plans  they  charge 
To  the  lowly  to  perfect, 
And  they  question  not  at  all 
If  a  school  or  college  lent 
Lustre  to  the  one  they  call. 
To  be  fame's  recipient. 


CRADLED     MOONS  261 


DEO  GRATIAS. 

The  gates  of  death  yawned  wide,  my  love, 

To  claim  thee  for  their  own, 
With  bated  breath,  I  tried,  my  love, 

To  stifle  tear  and  groan. 

My  bleeding  soul  cried  out,  my  love, 

So  helpless  there  was   I, 
For  God's  control  throughout,  my  love. 

I  would  not  have  thee  die. 

The  words  I  prayed  were  few,  my  love, 

But  steeped  in  anguished  gall. 
And  undismayed  were  you,  my  love, 

And  bravest  through  it  all. 

My  prayer  was  heard,  thou'rt  still  my  love, 

God  bade  grim  death  depart, 
And  by  His  word,  His  will,  my  love, 

He  eased  my  chastened  heart. 

Thou'rt  more  to  me  tonight,  my  love, 

Than  e'er  tliou  wast  before, 
And  it  shall  be  my  right,  my  love, 

To  have  thee  evermore. 


262  CRADLED     MOOXS 


HE  KISSED  THE  LIPS  OF  AMBITION 

Oh,  he  kissed  the  lips  of  Ambition, 

For  the  jade  was  sweet  and  fair, 
Oh,  he  kissed  the  lips  of  Ambition 

With  never  a  burdened  care, 
For  his  blood  was  hot  with  yearnings 

To  do,  and  to  be, — and  then 
To  feast  and  to  laugh  with  his  earnings 

And  buy  of  the  power  of  men ! 

Oh,  the  jade  was  as   fair  as   Morning, 

Youth's  kiss  was  returned  with  smile, 
He  saw  not  the  clouds  aborning 

Nor  searched  in  her  eyes  for  guile. 
And  he  laughed,  oh,  he  laughed,  when  neighbors 

Advised  with  their  lips,  "Beware!" 
For  Ambition  had  piped  to  his  labors, 

Yes,  the  jade  was  sweet  and  fair! 

Oh,  he  kissed  the  lips  of  Ambition; 

The  time  of  his  youth  was  spent, 
Then  he  damned  the  lips  of  Ambition 

For  his  youth's  impoverishment, 
For  the  hag  of  wisdom  bereft  him. 
And  the  wealth  that  he  earned,  she  flung 
To  'the  four  winds  of  Earth,  and  she  left  him, 

A  broken  down  reed,  unsung ! 


CRADLED     MOONS  263 

CHERRY  TIME 

'Tis  cherry  time,  ripe  cherry  time, 
Such  sweetness  lends  itself  to  rhyme, 

I  give  to  thee,  my  favored  one, 
A  few  I  gathered,  ere  the  sun 

Had  warmed  the  breezes  of  the  day, 

When  red  tints  streaked  the  bluing  gray. 

The  clustered  fruit  witli  mellowed  hearts 
Now  ripened  by  the  warm  sun's  arts, 

With  ruby  tints  of  June-time  red 
Hangs  temptingly  from  overhead, 

Inviting  all, — who  can  resist? 

Not  I,  such  joy  should  not  be  missed. 

The  robins  red,  the  blackbirds  sly, 

Their  cherry  tastes  now  gratify, 
And  other  birds,  like  wing-ed  thieves 

Dart  in  and  out  amongst  the  leaves, 
I  emulate  them  in  a  way, 

But  take  far  more,  in  fact,  than  they. 

To  me  the  ripened  cherries  bring 

Sweet  recollections  of  my  Spring, 
When  youth  and  joy  went  hand  in  hand, 

When  barefoot  boy  I  roamed  the  land 
And  fed  on  cherries  wet  with  dew, 

Some  black,  some  red,  all  luscious  too. 

And  I  remember,  oh,  so  well, 

A  little  miss  who  used  to  dwell 
Close  to  my  white-limed  country  home, 

Who  oftentimes  with  me  would  roam, 
A  raptured  symphony  in  blue, 

I've  not  forgot,  sweet  one,  'twas  you! 


264  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  once  I  climbed  a  cherry  tree, 
While  you  stood  gazing  up  at  me, 

With  apron  held  outstretched,  I  knew, 
To  catcli  the  cherries  that  I  threw, 

And  though  naught  but  a  boy  as  yet, 
I  threw  my  heart  into  that  net ! 

You  ate  those  lip-red  cherries  all, 

My  heart  you  thought  a  pit-stone,  small, 

You  must  have  thrown  it  to  the  wind, 
I've  hunted  oft,  but  ne'er  could  find, 

Mayhap  these  cherries  from  my  tree 
Will  serve  to  bring  a  heart  to  me. 

Each  one  I  plucked  had  been  dew-kissed, 
An  omen  fair  from  Morning's  mist, 

Each  one  my  kiss,  each  kiss  a  prayer 
From  lover  lips  for  strengtli  to  bear 

A  separation,  seemingly 

Without  an  end,  alas,  to  me! 

Each  reddened  spot  a  blush  of  shame. 
Each  blush  a  taunting  look  of  blame 

To  me,  for  letting  years  depart 

Ere  seeking  bliss  within  your  heart, 

Their  ruddy  cheeks  reflect  the  glow 
Of  kisses  warm,  I  did  bestow. 

'Tis  cherry  time,  ripe  cherry  time, 
Oh,  may  I  know  the  bliss  sublime 

Of  matching  cherries  to  your  lips, 
And  take  anew  our  youthful  trips. 

The  finest  fruit  Love  ever  grew 

I'll  pick  and  give  sweetheart  to  you! 


CRADLED     MOOXS  '2(>:> 


THE  GREAT  MUSICIAN 

As  the  mottled  shadows  of  the  maple  leaves 

Flick  in  the  light  of  the  clear,  limpid  moon 

And  dance  to  the  songs  which  the  wind  dotli  croon, 

So  flick  the  shadows  of  fame; 
But  like  the  shadow  which  close  interweaves. 
That  of  the  trunk  which  never  doth  move, 
So  standest  thou  in  our  memory's  groove. 

And  ages  will  thee  acclaim. 

As  the  rhythmic  music  of  thy  wondrous  mind 
Awoke  in  men's  hearts   new,  responsive  chords, 
Thrilling  like  wine  spilled  from  heavenly  gourds, 

So  wakes  to  thy  worth  at  last 
The  dull,  sluggish  hearts  of  the  mortal  kind, 
Which,  drowsy  with  tunes   from  the  unskilled  hand 
Were  nescient  to  strains  of  the  infinite  brand 

That  came  from  thy  treasures  vast. 

As  the  carping  critics  of  a  carnal  age 
Derided  thy  worth  and  caviled  at  thy  best, 
Doubted  thy  might  and  damned  thee  with  a  zest. 

So  all  great  minds  have  been  slurred ; 
But  now  thy  defamers  are  gone  from  Life's  stage, 
Their  words  are  forgotten  and  scattered  like  chaff, 
No  music  they  wrote  on  Eternity's  staff. 

But  thine  will  ever  be  heard. 


266 

NO  MAN  CAN  ESCAPE 

No  man  can  escape  from  a  woman's  love 

When  once  such  a  love  has   been  given, 
N.O  refuge  as  safe  as  a  woman's  heart 

For  a  life  that's  been  cruelly  driven, 
And  the  winds  of  hate  and  the  storms  of  pride 

Are  broken  and  scattered  like  spray 
When  a   man  returns   and   a  woman   forgives 

The  errors  which  marked  yesterday. 

No  man  can  escape  from  a  woman's  prayers 

No  matter  how  far  he  may  go, 
For  God  answers  prayer  and  the  methods   He  takes 

Are  strange  to  us  mortals  below. 
When  prayers  mix  with  tears  and  sorrows  with  love, 

And  souls  that  are  burdened  entreat, 
There's  something  that  moves  man's  hardness   of  heart 

And  urges  repentance  complete. 

No  man  can  escape  from  the  love  he  has  felt 

For  the  children  he  brought  into  life, 
No  matter  how  long  he's  estranged  from  their  thought 

Through  sin  and  its  consequent  strife ; 
For  there's  something  divine  in  man's  love  for  his  child. 

There's  something*  that  makes  its  appeal 
To  his  innermost  soul  and  moves  him  to  show 

The  love  which  a  father  can  feel. 

No  man  can  escape  from  himself  though  he  aims 

To  forget  or  deny  wicked  deeds, 
He  may  outwardly  show  to  the  world  a  calm  mien, 

But  within  his  heart  silently  bleeds ; 
No  bandage  save  Love  can  staunch  mem'ry's  wounds, 

No  friends  can  displace  kinship's  ties, 
The  love  of  his  own,  their  prayers  and  himself, 

No  man  can  escape  if  he  tries. 


CRADLED     MOONS  267 


THE  THINNING  RANKS 

The  bugles  sound,  the  rolling  drums 

Have  signaled  break  of  day. 
Arise,  O  comrades,  and  again 

Greet  this   Memorial   Day; 
Attention,  fall  in  line  and  count. 

One,  two,  three,  four,  begin  ! 
And  answer  to  the  roll-call  now, 

0  God,  the  ranks  are  thin ! 

Where's  Smith  who  fought  at  Seven  Pines  ? 

Where's  Jones  who  was  with  me 
At  Gettysburg  for  three  whole  days 

And  saw  the  rout  of  Lee? 
What,  dead?     No,  boys,  it  can't  be  true, 

They  marched  with  us  last  year, 
They  seemed  as  well  and  strong  as  I, 

1  thought  they'd  sure  be  here ! 

Old  Adams  gone?     And  Sergeant  Green? 

And  full  two  score  or  more 
Who  answer  not  unto  their  names 

As  in  the  days  of  yore? 
All  dead,  and  lying  'neath  the  ground? 

Yes,  boys,  it  must  be  so, 
Or  else  they'd  march  with  us  today 

And  answer  "Here,"  I  know. 

I  fear  me,  boys,  it  won't  be  long 

Before  our  time  will  come, 
\Ve'll  have  to  recognize  the  call 

When  Death  shall  beat  the  drum. 


•208  CRADLED     MOOXS 

Our  ranks  are  few,  and  fewer  still 

Another  year  will   find, 
It  won't  be  long  ere  not  a  one 

Of  us  is  left  behind. 

But  while  we're  here,  O  comrades,  show 

Our  colors  all  unfurled, 
God  bless  that  flag;  we  saved  it,  boys, 

It's  honored  o'er  the  world. 
And  once  again  today  we'll  think 

Of  those  who  fought  and  died 
To  keep  our  Union  all  intact 

And  bled  on  Freedom's  side. 

Now.    forward  march ;    right   shoulder   arms. 

Forget  your  years  again, 
The  band  leads  on ;  acquit  yourselves 

Today  like  valiant  men. 
Another  year,  maybe,  we  too 

Will  sleep  in   Mem'ry's   bed, 
But  here  today,  we're  privileged 

To  honor  noble  dead. 


THE   TIME   TO   BE   CROSS 

The  time  to  be  cross  is  when  you  have  found 

That  some  petty  trouble  has  made 
You  forget  for  the  nonce  all  else  but  the  wound 

And  rightly  or  wrongly  upbraid; 
For  nothing  is  gained  by  anger  or  pride. 

They  both  should  be  hid  on  Time's  shelf, 
And  if  you  give  way  when  troubles  betide 

It's  time  to  be  cross — with  yourself. 


CRADLED     MOONS  269 


"THE    KEEPER   OF   THE    SPRINGS" 

Who  is  the  keeper  of  the  springs?     He  that  guards  and 

well 
Life's   glorious    fountain   source   of  which   the   ages   tell 

And  none  hath  found; 

Who  sends  the  waters  down  the  mountain  slopes,  to  fill 
The  river's  bed,  the  brooks,  and  holds  them  back  at  will 

From   flooded   ground. 

Who  is  the  keeper  of  the  springs?     Who  fills  life's  golden 

cup 
And  gives  to  thirsty  souls  that  plead  a  measure  or  a  sup 

Nor  doth  withhold? 
Who  keeps  youth's  valleys  green  and  makes  the  snows 

of   age 

Revitalize  the  earth  and  a  new  birth  presage 
Where  naught  grows   old? 

Who    is    the    Keeper    of    the    springs    Who    knows    that 

millions  are 
Dependent  on  His  love  and  view  Him  from  afar 

As   One  supreme  ? 

Who  watches  clouds  and  rain  and  dams  the  surging  sea 
Of  restless  unborn  life,  and  makes  Eternity 
An  endless  stream  ? 

God  is  the  Keeper  of  the  springs.      He  dwells  on  lofty 

heights 
Unseen  by  mortal  man  until  Death's  sunshine  lights 

And  closer  brings 

His   mountain  lodge  to  view,  and  eyes  of  P'aith  descry 
The  bounteous  source  of  good  in  which  men's  futures  lie; 

God  keeps  these  springs. 


270  CRADLED     MOOXS 


MY  HEAVEN 


I  had  a  dream,  sweetheart,  last  night, 

The  strangest  I  have  known, 
I  dreamed  my  soul  had  taken  flight 

Into  a  boundless  zone ; 
It  seemed  as  if  each  finite  cord 

Which  held   my   soul  below 
Had  parted  strands  and  I  had  soared 

To  realms  no  mortals  know. 

No  wings  I  owned,  but«yet  I  flew 

Through  countless  miles  of  space 
Impelled  by  some  great  power  which  drew 

Me  towards  a  gorgeous  place; 
I  saw  four  walls  of  purest  white 

Capped   with   great   blocks    of  gold, 
And  all  gave  forth  resplendent  light, 

'Twas  marvelous  to  behold. 

And  in  the  walls  I  saw  a  door 

With  locks  of  burnished  brass, 
And  o'er  its  top  these  words  it  bore, 

"None  but  the  poor  can  pass." 
I  knew  straightway  that  this  must  be 

The  heavenly  home  of  bliss 
Which  every  mortal  longs  to  see 

And  no  one  wants  to  miss. 

And  glad  was  I  to  reach  that  place 

Which  knows  no  earthly  pain, 
I  felt  quite  sure  that  in  my  case 

Such  poverty  was  plain. 
I  boldly  knocked  and  waited  long 

Before   I   heard   a   sound, 
I  wondered  what  there  could  be  wrong, 

Why  no  one  was  around. 


CRADLED     MOONS  271 

But  finally  the  hinges  creaked, 

The  door  an  inch  did  stir, 
And  from  behind  St.  Peter  peeked 

And  said,  "What  would  you,  sir?" 
I    answered,    "Peter,   I '  demand 

An  entrance  now  within, 
A  penitent  and  poor  I  stand, 

I'm  free  from  riches'  sin. 

A  wealthy   poet  never   breathed, 

The  fates  have  so  ordained, 
My  rhymes  alone  I  have  bequeathed 

To  those  who  have  remained." 
St.  Peter  looked  on  me  askance 

And  said,  "Pray  tell  me  this, 
If  ever  by  the  merest  chance 

You've  tasted   Heaven's   bliss." 

"Why,  yes,"  I  said,  "  'Twas  when  I  heard 

My  sweetheart  whisper  low 
A  single,  solitary  word, 

And  saw  her  blushes  glow, 
And  felt  her  sweet  lips  pressed  to  mine, 

And  knew  she  cared  for  me 
With  a  pure  love  almost  divine, 

'Twas  bliss  if  such  could  be." 

Again  St.  Peter  to  me  spake 

And  said,  "Go  back,  young  man ! 
You've  made  a  terrible  mistake, 

Go  back  while  yet  you  can ; 
For  you  there  is  no  greater  bliss, 

In  here  or  anywhere, 
'Twas  heaven  you  left,  a  sweetheart's  kiss 

Is  wealth  beyond  compare ! 

You  are  .too  tich  to  enter  here, 

There's  nothing  new  within 
To  compensate  for  that   I   fear, 

If  I  do  let  you  in; 


272  CRADLED     MOONS 

Go  seek  your  heaven  from  whence  you  came, 

I  cannot  give  you  more, 
I  wish  that  I  could  have  the  same;" 

With  that  lie  shut  the  door.  f 

And  then  it  seemed  as  though  I  fell 

Back  to  the  earth  again, 
And  then  awoke  all  sound  and  well 

Amidst  the  haunts  of  men. 

I  wrote  this  dream  because,  my  dear, 

It  taught  that  naught  above 
Contains  such  bliss  as  I've  found  here, 

The  Heaven  in  your  love. 


TO  AN  AUTOGRAPH  FIEND 

Oh,  "What's  in  a  name?"     There  is  little  I  ween, 

In   my    autograph  wherever    'tis    seen, 
Wrhen  compared  with  the  names  of  the  men  who  have 
made 

Success  of  their  labors  in  tasks  they've  essayed. 
You  can  conjure  with  theirs,  and  the  world  will  applaud, 

But  mine's  only  known  to  myself  and  my  God. 
Yet  I  hope  and  aspire  to  carve  bold  and  strong 

A  niche  in  the  future  by  rhythmical  song, 
And  mayhap,  my  friend,  posterity's  fame 

Will  accord  its  bright  lustre  to  me  and  my  name. 
So  in  hope  of  that  day  my  own  I'll  append 

To  the  long  list  of  poets  which  ne'er  seems  to  end. 
I   feel  honored,  I'm  sure,  by  your  kind  request. 

And  herewith   inscribe  my   poor  name  with   the   rest. 


r  HAULED     MOONS  273 


MY  GARDEN  OF  BLIGHTED  HOPES 

I   sowed  in  the  hours  of  Life's  morning 

The  seeds  of  my  purest  desire, 
While  the  glorious  tints  of  the  dawning 

Reflected  Ambition's  green  fire; 
I  ploughed  through  rough  fields  of  dejection, 

I   harrowed  through  toils  of  despair, 
My    garden    I    tilled   to   perfection, 

'Twas  ready  for  blooms  it  might  bear. 

I  hoped  for  a  prime's  early  reaping 

Ere  suns   of  the  advancing  years  • 

Should  dry  up  the  springs  in  my  keeping 

Or  salt  their  sweet  waters   with  tears ; 
I  hoped  for  a  harvest  transcendent, 

Surpassing  the  world's   finest  yield. 
I  prayed  that  success  be  attendant 

And  prove  my  best  work  in  Life's  field. 

I  recked  not  of  ice-blasts  and  hoar-frosts 

Which   swooped   down    from    Doubt-land's    high   hills, 
Of  blossoms  and  fruits  by  the  score  lost 

Through  Hate  that  so  ruthlessly  kills ; 
I   dreamt  not  of  Drouth's  cruel  burning, 

Of  pests  of  the  sycophant  brand 
Which    came   in    a    cloud    on    discerning 

The  sprouts  bursting  through  on  my  land. 

I  saw  not  the  hail-stones  of  Habits 

Beat  down  and  destroy  tender  shoots. 
I  thought  not  that  Passions  like  rabbits 

Would  tear  up  my  best  by  the  roots ; 
I  knew  not  that  Poverty  blighted 

And  ate  like  a  cankerous  worm, 
Nor  saw  I  that  Envy  incited 

The  weeds  and  the  tares  to  root  firm. 


274  CRADLED     MOONS 

Life's  evening  has  now  settled  o'er  me, 

My  garden  is  desolate,  bare, 
The  Reaper  called  Death  stands  before  me 

And  claims  good  and  bad  for  his  share; 
My  swan-song  of  Failure  I've  chanted, 

My  spirit  is  broken,  and  gropes 
Through  the  memories  of  years  when  I  planted 

In  my  garden  of  Blighted  Hopes. 


THE    POET'S   ART 

The  secret  of  a  poet's  art 

Is  thinking  well  what  he'd  impart 
To  those  who  by  design  or  chance 

Will   o'er   his   lines   and  verses   glance. 

A  poem  without  sense  or  thought 

Is  wasted  work  and  good  for  naught, 
The  meanest  rhyme  is  justified 
If   simple   truth   it   doth    provide. 

The  highest  type  of  verse  that's  known 
Is  that  where  mirrored  love  is  shown, 
The  reader  sees   reflected  bright 

The  thought  which  prompts  a  man  to  write. 

I  sometimes  think  that  poets  are 
True  oracles  who  but  unbar 

The  prison  gates  of  fettered  Time, 

And  loosen  doubts   through   portent   rhyme. 

Dame  Nature  never  lent  a  song 

To  him  whose  heart  and  thoughts  were  wrong, 
And  only  those  who  feel  can  sing 
The  sublime  verse  with  truest  ring. 


CRADLED     MOONS  275 


THE  SETTLEMENT  OF  WOLLASTON 

Where  the  gentle  breezes  blow 
From  the  waters  of  the  bay, 
Where  the  moon's  soft,  mellow  glow 
Can  be  seen  at  close  of  day; 
On  the  hills  that  look  afar 
Over  land  and  over  sea, 
There  is  naught  that  e'er  can  mar 
Nature's  sweet  tranquility. 

There  from  Wollaston's  great  heights 
One  can  see  the  twinkling  flash 
Of  the  myriad  harbor  lights 
Showing  where  the  breakers  dash; 
Where  the  islands',  vernal  green 
Looms  against  the  ocean's  blue, 
Each  a  seeming  Neptune's  queen, 
'Tis  in  truth  a  noble  view. 


Rising  proudly  'gainst  the  skies 
Yon  stone  tower,  lofty,  grand, 
Massiveness  that  amplifies 
Beauties  of  a  pleasant  land; 
Roses  wild  and  flowerets  rare, 
Noble  elms  and  maple  trees 
In  profusion  everywhere, 
Tempting  man  to  live  at  ease. 

Homes  and  schools  upon  the  hill, 
Churches  with  their  pointed  spires, 
All  a  power  to  instill 
Healthy  thoughts  and  pure  desires ; 


276  CRADLED     MOONS 

Such  a  spot  I  have  in  mind 
On  the  shores  of  Quincy  Bay, 
Nature's  work  by  man  refined, 
Sueh  is   Wollaston  to-dav. 


Scarce  three  hundred  years  have  flown 
Since  the  good  ship  "Charity" 
Anchored  by  this  land  unknown, 
Land  of  virgin  purity. 
Boisterous  sea  and  stormy  wind 
Here  were  stilled,  and  quiet  reigned, 
Mayhap  God  Himself  designed 
All  this  beautv  unrestrained. 


List  the  shout  of  rapturous  joy 
P'rom  an  hundred  lusty  throats, 
Happiness  without  alloy. 
Orders  come  to  man  the  boats. 
Hear  the  sharp  and  quick  command, 
"Loose  the  davits,  take  the  oars, 
Captain  Wollaston  will  land 
On  these  bright,  inviting  shores." 


Standing  in  the  foremost  prow, 
Folded  arms,  majestic   mien, 
With  a  high  and  classic  brow, 
Captain  Wollaston  is  seen. 
Nature  moulded  him  from  clay 
Different  from  the  common  lot, 
And  in  moulding  threw  away 
All  the  things  which  pleased  her  not. 


CRADLED     MOONS  277 

Cared  he  little  for  high  Art 
Science  or  Philosophy, 
Such  tilings  were  to  him  a  part 
Of  the  learned's  sophistry ; 
Church  nor  school  could  him  entice, 
Nature's  world  had  taught  him  more 
Which  to  his  mind  did  suffice, 
Seaman's  craft  and  woodsman's  lore. 


Fearless  both  of  man  or  beast, 
Never  letting  insult  pass, 
Quick  of  wit  and  at  the  feast 
Drained  he   dregs   of  the   strong  glass ; 
Popular  with  his  motley  crew, 
Loved  by  them  botli  one  and  all, 
King  James'  enemies  he  slew 
In  pitched  battle  or  in  brawl. 


'Mongst  the  men  who  followed  close 
WTas  a  man  who's  passed  to  fame 
By  his   ribald  jests,  jocose, 
Thomas   Morton  was  his  name; 
Rascal,  yet  a  brilliant  knave, 
Happy,  jolly  and  care-free, 
Handsome,  swagger,  withal  brave, 
Bacchanal  in  revelry. 


Once  a  barrister  was  he, 
Corkscrew  curls  and  powdered  pate 
Seemed  with  him  ne'er  to  agree, 
Laughed  he  at  the  magistrate. 
Destined  was  he  to  impress 
On  the  Future's  scroll  of  life 
Records  of  his  idleness, 
And  his  quarrelings  and  strife. 


•278  CRADLED     MOONS 

Hark !  the  scraping  of  the  sand 
As  they  pulled  up  on  the  beach, 
Thankful  once  again  to  land, 
Hear  the  joyful  shouts  of  each. 
Weeks  of  sailing  on  the  sea, 
Sky  above  and  deep  below, 
Proves  a  dread  monotony 
Such  as  onlv  sailors  know. 


Bounding  lightly  up  the  hill, 
With  his  sword  of  shining  steel, 
Wollaston  ran  with  a  will, 
Others  following  at  his  heel. 
Planting  England's  ensign  high, 
Double  crossed  and  bloody  field, 
Claimed  he  all  one  could  espy, 
Nature's  treasures  here  revealed. 


"By  the  might  of  good  King  James, 
This  fair  spot  shall  henceforth  be 
Called  the  fairest  of  all  names, 
Mountain  Wollaston  for  me. 
Other  titles  I  abjure, 
This  shall  be  my  monument, 
Ever  shall  this  name  endure 
Till  the  days  of  time  be  spent." 


Cheer  on  cheer  from  them  resounded, 
Islands  echoed  back  the  call, 
And  from  neighboring  hills  rebounded 
Answering  echoes  to  them  all. 
Ruddy  wines   from   far-off  Spain 
Here  were  quaffed  to  piquant  toast, 
And  each  pledged  him  to  maintain 
England's  right  to  this  fair  coast. 


CRADLED     MOONS  279 

There  upon  the  hill's  green  crest 
Tents  were  pitched,  and  ere  the  sun 
Sank  beneath  the  golden  west 
Future's  history  had  begun. 
History  which  never  will 
Lose  its  charm  for  those  who  grope 
Through  its  pages,  there  to  fill 
To  its  brim  the  cup  of  hope. 


Tired  men  perforce  must  sleep, 
Nature  claims  rest  as  her  due. 
If  man  would  his  vigor  keep, 
This  trite  fact  the  Captain  knew. 
Sentinels  he  placed  around, 
Soon  the  camp  in  slumber  lay, 
Stretched  upon  the  grassy  mound, 
Sleeping  till  the  break  of  day. 


Ere  the  moon  had  climbed  in  sight 
Watches,  too,  sought  rest's  relief, 
And  none  saw  by  its  dim  light 
Aberdecest,  Indian  chief. 
With  a  smile,  disdainful,  fierce, 
Watched  he  from  his  hiding  place, 
Eyes  that  seemed  the  night  to  pierce 
Gleamed  from  out  his  painted  face. 


Fain  would  he  have  driven  them 
F'rom  the  spot  which  they  had  sought, 
By  each  cunning  strategem 
Which  his  savage  nature  taught. 
For  this  place  was  hallowed  ground 
To  the  simple  child  of  earth, 
Hallowed  was  the  country  round, 
It  had  been  his  land  of  birth. 


280  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  in  peace  his  mother  lay 

'Neath  the  sod  upon  this  hill, 

Ever  since  the  awful  day 

When  the  plague  did  thousands  kill. 

Well  for  Wollaston's  small  band, 

As  they  slept  that  night  serene, 

He  had  felt  the  mighty  hand 

That  lias  stopped  his  tribe's  rapine. 


Old  moons  counted  now  a  score 
That  had  cradled  in  the  new 
Since  on  Wcssagusset's  shore 
Mighty  chiefs  Myles  Standish  slew. 
When  fierce  Wituwamat  died 
With  the  great  chief  Pecksuot, 
He  himself  was  forced  to  hide, 
Fearful  lest  he  too  be  caught. 


And  his  eyes  blazed  out  with  fire, 
Vengeance  cried  out  for  surcease, 
For  the  wrongs  which  caused  his  ire 
By  the  men  from  'cross  the  seas. 
Did  not  wicked  Captain  Hunt, 
When  he  sailed  New  England's  coast, 
Steal  from  him  with  cruel  taunt 
The  one  thing  he  loved  the  most? 


Stole  from  him  his  only  child, 
Then  almost  a  full-grown  brave, 
Forced  him  from  his  native  wild, 
Sold  him  for  an  abject  slave. 
As  these  thoughts  flew  o'er  him  now, 
Aberdecest  sought  to  slay 
Or  to  drive  away  somehow 
All  who  now  before  him  lay. 


CRADLED     MOONS  281 

Planning  deep  his  subtle  schemes 
Which  would  his  revenge  requite, 
Ere  the  sun's  first  morning  beams 
Passed  he  out  into  the  night. 
Over  hill  and  dale  he  went, 
Swift  and  silent  as  a  cat, 
Straight  into  his  birch-bark  tent, 
Where  his  chiefs  in  council  sat. 


Never  did  the  morning  sky 
Brighter  seem  to  look  upon, 
More  attractive  to  the  eye 
Than  now  greeted  Wollaston. 
And  the  June  sun  seemed  to  cheer 
By  its  brilliant,  streaming  rays 
All  who  came  to  settle  here, 
And  to  forecast  happy  days. 


In  their  sylvan  depth's  retreat 
Robin,  thrush  and  whip-poor-will 
Caroled  out  their  song  so  sweet; 
Songs  which  seemed  the  air  to  fill. 
And  the  babbling,  laughing  brook 
Gaily  danced  down  to  the  sea, 
Darting  'twixt  each  dell  and  nook, 
Trippling,  trilling,  euphony. 


Marveling  at  this  wondrous  scene, 
Wollaston  and  Morton  rose 
From  their  bed  of  grasses  green, 
Freshened  by  the  night's  repose. 
Ere  they  started  to  explore 
These  fair  sights  which  did  enthrall, 
Breakfast  from  the  vessel's  store 
Was  then  served  to  one  and  all. 


282  CRADLED     MOOXS 

Calling  for  their  pouch  of  shot, 
Fowling  piece  and  powder  horn, 
Wollaston  and  Morton  sought 
To  start  out  while  yet  'twas  morn. 
Proudly  perched  upon  his  hand 
Morton  took  his  lanneret, 
Which  would  fly  at  his  command 
And  his  hunting  trophies  get. 


Straight  they  travelled  to  the  west, 
Where  the  hills  were  high  and  blue, 
Resting  on  the  highest  crest, 
Noting  everything  in  view. 
There  beneath  their  eager  eyes 
Were  two  lakes  whose  liquid  deeps 
Back  reflected  summer  skies 
And  the  rugged  mountain  steeps. 


To  the  north  of  them  there  lay 
Silver  streams  and  tree-grown  plains, 
To  the  eastward  in  the  bay 
Islets  stretched  in  endless  chains. 
Ere  they  started  back  to  go, 
Hours  many  had  flown  by, 
And  the  sun  had  sunken  low 
In  the  glowing  western  sky. 


When  they  plunged  into  the  wood 
Steps  of  morning  to  retrace, 
Lo,  behold,  before  them  stood 
An  Indian  with  stolid  face, 
With  his  bow  slung  on  his  arm, 
Arrow-quiver   full  to  brim, 
Fearful  lest  he  might  do  harm, 
Pointed  they  their  guns  at  him. 


CRADLED     MOONS  283 

Taken  with  surprise  aback 

By  these  words  familiar,  clear, 

"Welcome,  English,  Hobomack 

Invites  you  to  share  his  cheer 

Under  yonder  shady  tree. 

Come  and  eat  my  venison, 

Come  and  fear  thou  naught  from  me." 

Thus  he  spake  to  Wollaston. 


Glad  were  these  two  pioneers 
To  accept  this  offer  made, 
And  to  have  their  anxious  fears 
By  these  kindly  words  allayed. 
Underneath  a  spreading  elm 
On  the  east  slope  of  the  hill, 
Overlooking  Nature's  realm 
Sat  all  three  with  right  good-will. 


Outdoor  life  gives  appetite, 
Travel  makes  it  doubly  keen, 
And  the  frugal  meal  in  sight 
More  than  welcome  was,  I  ween. 
So  the  dish  of  venison 
Made  their  gnawing  hunger  cease, 
And  when  all  of  them  were  done 
Smoked  they  of  the  pipe  of  peace. 


Then  the  captain  and  his  mate 
Asked  their  valiant   Indian  host 
If  he  would  to  them  relate 
Stories  of  this  rock-bound  coast. 
If  the  many  tribes  around 
Still  to  heathen  customs  clung, 
Where  the  white  men  could  be  found 
Who  had  taught  to  him  their  tongue? 


284  CRADLED     MOONS 

With  his  hand  he  pointed  south 

Towards  a  great,  unbeaten  track, 

And  these  words  came  from  the  mouth 

Of  the  mighty  Hobomack: 

"Many  golden  moons  ago, 

White  men  came  in  ships  with  wings, 

Came  amidst  the  Winter's  snow, 

When  the  chilly  north  wind  stings. 


To  the  place  called  Patuxet 

Came   and   built   their   wigwams   high, 

On  the  land  which  Samoset 

And  his  tribe  did  occupy. 

There  they  taught  me  how  to  pray 

To  the  all-wise  Manitou, 

Taught  me  English  words  to  say, 

Words  with  which  I  greeted  you. 


And  when  Manepashmet's  squaw, 
Sachem  of  the  Nipmuck  race, 
Would  on  Hobomack  make  war 
And  would  drive  him  from  this  place, 
Then  these  men  whose  skin  was  fair 
Drove  the  wicked  squaw-chief  back, 
Taught  her  warriors  to  beware 
Lest  they  injure  Hobomack. 


Thus  a  debt  to  them  I  owe, 
Never  shall  the  English  say 
Hobomack  was  white  man's  foe, 
Or  kind  deeds  failed  to  repay." 
Other  things  he  told  them  still, 
Told  how  he  that  day  had  heard 
Aberdecest  plot  to  kill 
Those  who  had  his  hate  incurred. 


CRADLED     ]M()()XS 

When  the  hunter's  moon  should  wane, 
He  had  planned  to  fall  upon 
And  to  kill  for  loot  and  gain 
All  the  men  with  Wollaston. 
Bidding  them  to  hasten  back 
To  their  camp  and  make  defense, 
From  the  ground  rose  Hobomack, 
Said  farewell  and  went  from  hence. 


Frightened  by  the  Indian's  tale, 
The  two  travellers  rose  in  haste 
And  took  up  their  morning  trail 
Through  the  brush  and  swampy  waste. 
Evening  shadows  deeper  grew, 
Darkness  soon  enveloped  them, 
And  the  stars  came  into  view, 
Jewels  of  Night's  diadem. 


Unfamiliar  was  the  land, 
And  it  is  not   strange  that  they 
E'en  with  woodlore  at  command 
Could  not  find  the  homeward  way. 
Skulking  wolves  trailed  at  their  heels, 
Hooting  owls  the  echoes  woke, 
And  the  distant  thunder  peals 
Of  a  coming  storm  bespoke. 


Wondering  how  they  should  proceed, 
Neither  dared  to  act  as  guide, 
When  bold  Morton,  quick  of  deed, 
In  great  exultation  cried; 
"Let  us  tie  this  silken  cord 
On  my  noble  bird  of  prey,  * 
And  we  will  to  him  afford 
Length  enough  to  lead  the  way. 


286  CRADLED     MOOXS 

Mayhap  he  will  see  the  glow 
Of  our  sentry's  beacon  light. 
And  to  us  the  way  will  show 
That  shall  overcome  our  plight." 
Suiting  action  to  the  word, 
Morton  bade  the  bird  to  fly, 
And  divested  of  its  hood 
Rose  the  noble  falcon  high. 


Straight  he  flew  towards  where  the  camp 

On  the  distant  hill  did  stand, 

Hampered  somewhat  by  the   cramp 

Of  the  cord  in  Morton's  hand. 

Guided  in  this  novel  way 

Many  miles  the  twain  did  roam, 

Tired  by  their  long  delay 

When  they  reached  their  tented  home. 


Sleep  is  Nature's  healing  balm, 
Soothing,  restful,  giving  all 
Troubled   hearts   its   peaceful  calm, 
P'reedom  from  life's  bitter  thrall. 
Soon  these  hardy  pioneers 
By  old  Morpheus  were  enslaved, 
For  the  nonce  forgot  their  fears 
And  the  dangers  they  had  braved. 


Days  soon  lengthened  into  weeks, 
Weeks  to  months  as  quickly  grew, 
And  where  first  upon  the  peaks 
Tents  had  risen  into  view, 
Houses  stood,  unfinished,  rude, 
Built  of  logs  and  yellow  clay, 
And   although   their   style   was    crude. 
Proof  they  gave  of  strength  to  stay. 


CRADLED     MOONS  287 

Circling  round  the  settlement 
Oaken  staves  and  prickly  vines 
Acted  as  an  intrenchment 
'Gainst  all  hostile  men's  designs. 
Well  had  Wollaston  so  schemed 
His  defence  from  savage  foe, 
That  impregnable  it  seemed 
Naught  was  needed  more,  I  trow. 


Every  night  a  sentry  stood 
From  his  vantage  point  concealed, 
Gazing  out  into  the  wood 
Fearful  lest  each  shadow  yield 
Proof  of  Aberdecest's  vow, 
Made  in  cruel,  malign  hate, 
That  he  would  sometime,  somehow, 
The   whole   band   annihilate. 


When  the  trees  stole  from  the  sun 
Brilliant  hues  of  red  and  gold, 
Ere  old  Boreas  had  begun 
To  blow  down  the  northern  cold, 
Came  there  to  the  camp  one  day 
A  savage  fierce,  with  visage  sly, 
In  his  painted  war  array 
And  a  cruel,  wicked  eye. 


Straight  to  WTollaston  he  went 

And  presented  to  his  hand 

Bow  and  arrows  which  were  sent 

With  a  haughty,  sharp  command 

By  the  sachem  of  his  tribe 

That  they  all  should  leave  in  haste 

Else  he  would  to  them  proscribe 

Torture,  death  and  fire's  waste. 


288  CRADLED     MOONS 

Reaching  for  his  trusty  gun 

With  a  steady,  careful  eye, 

Trained  by  usage,  Wollaston 

Aimed  it  at  a  hawk  on  high. 

Ere  the  echoes  died  away, 

And  the  smoke  had  cleared  from  sight, 

At  their  feet  before  them  lay 

The  bird  bereft  of  life  and  might. 


"So  it  shall  be  to  your  chief 
If  he  comes  on  us  to  war. 
He  shall  likewise  come  to  grief, 
Go  and  tell  him  what  you  saw." 
Thus  spake  Wollaston  aloud 
To    the    haughty    Indian    brave, 
Who  went  back  with  spirit  cowed, 
Sadder,  yet  a  wiser  knave. 


Glad  was  Aberdecest  then 
When  he  heard  his  courier's  word 
To  seek  favor  with  these  men 
Who   could   shoot   a   winged   bird, 
And  he  sent  them  for  their  use 
Skins  of  beaver  and  of  bear, 
Praying  that  he  might  make  truce 
With  the  men  whose  skins  were  fair. 


Neither  were  the  settlers  loath 
Witli  the  Indians  to  make  peace, 
Well  they  knew  'twas  best  for  both 
That  ill  feeling  now  should  cease. 
So  they  traded  back  and  forth 
Beads  for  skins  and  knives  for  furs, 
And  for  other  things  of  worth 
Gave  they  of  their  ample  stores. 


CRADLED     MOONS  289 

Winter  now  came  on  apace, 
And  the  gray  clouds  floated  low, 
Biting  winds  cut  on  man's  face, 
And  the  air  was  filled  witli  snow. 
Rather  than  the  cold  winds  bear 
Of  New  England's  winter  time, 
Wollaston  would  fain  repair 
To  Virginia's  sunny  clime. 


Gathering  his  men  around, 
The  bold  leader  from  them  chose 
Half  a  score,  all  strong  and  sound, 
And  he  did  to  them  propose 
That  they  sail  to  Raleigh's  land 
Where  the  winter  air  was  mild, 
Where  man  must  not  needs  withstand 
Howling  winds  and  storms  so  wild. 


Then  to  Morton  he  resigned 
The  command  of  all  the  rest 
Who  were  left  by  him  behind 
Mostly  at  their  own  behest. 
'Weighing  anchor  one  bright  day 
With  a  smooth,  unruffled  sea, 
From    Mount   Wollaston   away 
Sailed  he  on  the  "Charity." 


From  that  day  to  this  we've  heard 
Little  of  that  roving  soul, 
Though  Dame  Rumor  adds  her  word 
To  the  page  of  his  life's  scroll. 
She  has  said  he  wooed  and  won 
A  maiden  fair  of  Indian  kind, 
Thus  we'll  leave  brave  Wollaston 
And  dismiss  him  from  our  mind. 


290  CRADLED     MOONS 

Winter  months  flew  quickly  by, 
Glad  were  Morton  and  his  men 
When  the  sun  rose  in  the  sky 
And  the  spring  time  came  again. 
For  to  those  then  far  away 
From  their  English  homes  so  fair 
Every  dark  and  cheerless  day 
Seemed  to  fill  them  with  despair. 


Few  indeed  can  wear  a  frown 
When  Dame   Nature,  all  serene, 
Dresses  in  her  brightest  gown, 
Heavenly  blue  and  brilliant  green. 
And  it  is  not  strange  if  all 
In  the  camp  should  celebrate 
Spring's   return   with    festival 
And  with  joy  exuberate. 


When  the  merry  month  of  May 
Comes  again  with  smiling  skies 
And  each  bright  and  sunny  day 
Drives  away  all  frowns  and  sighs, 
Then  the  universe  seems  glad, 
E'en  the  stars  blink  out  their  joy, 
And  the  old  Earth,  now  green-clad 
Winter's  gloom  seems  to  destroy. 


So  when  spring  time  came  once  more 
Dreary  winter  to  expel, 
From  the  hill  and  from  the  shore 
From  each  mountain  glade  and  dell, 
"Pis  not  strange  that  Morton  should 
In  his  heart  to  joy  give  birth, 
And  his  men  in  joyful  mood 
Homage  pay  to  Mother  Earth. 


CRADLED     MOONS  291 

As  the  May-day  now  drew  near, 
Morton  planned  his  joy  to  show, 
By  the  custom  to  him  dear 
Of  a  May-pole  all  aglow. 
Decked  with  garlands  wet  with  dew, 
Strung  with   ribbons,   gaudy,   gay, 
Each  of  brightest  dye  and  hue, 
Fitting  honors  to  the  day. 


So  he  climbed  the  lofty  hill, 
With  his  men  he  built  a  shrine, 
And  they  cut  with  woodsman's  skill 
For  their  pole  a  lofty  pine. 
Eighty  feet  they  raised  its  head, 
And  its  top  they  did  equip 
With  a  pair  of  antlers  spread 
Full  five  feet  from  tip  to  tip. 


When  the  holiday  came  round, 
Marched  they  all  with  noise  of  drum 
To  the  summit  of  the  mound, 
Bearing  flagons  full  of  rum. 
Savages  who  flocked  to  see 
White  men's  revels  lent  a  hand 
In  this  May-day's  jollity 
Strange,  indeed,  to  this  new  land. 


After  fashion  of  the  time 
Morton  wrote  a  May-pole  ode 
And  made  fun  in  caustic  rhyme 
Of  each  current  episode. 
This  he  fixed  upon  the  tree 
For  his  men  to  read  at  will, 
Then  began  the  revelry 
On  the  summit  of  the  hill. 


292  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  from  Bradford's  strict  account 
We  have  learned  that  Morton  named 
Where  the  pole  stood  "Merrymount." 
Such  to  this  day  it  is  famed. 
And  the  name  was  chosen  well, 
For  the  revels  'neath  the  trees 
Would  defy  one  to  excel, 
Ne'er  was  seen  such  games  as  these. 


Dancing  madly  and  with  vim 
Rivaling  Bacchus  in  his  mood 
Some  with  naked  breast  and  limb 
In  a  manner  savage,  lewd. 
Drunken  with  their  great  excess, 
Singing  loud  a  roundelay, 
In  bold,  reckless  wantonness 
Thus  they  spent  the  livelong  day. 


'Mongst  the  Indians  who  had  seen 
Morton's  wild  symposiac, 
And  the  revels  on  the  green 
Was  the  mighty  Hobomack. 
Often  had  he  visited 
Morton  and  his  hardy  band, 
And   in   hunting   spirited, 
He  had  led  them  o'er  the  land. 


But  the  revels  he  now  viewed 

Shocked  his  sense  of  moral  right, 

With  which  he  became  imbued 

By  Myles  Standish,  stern,  upright. 

So  he  hurried  to  the  town 

Where  the  Pilgrims  lived  in  peace, 

And  to  Standish  he  made  known 

Things  which  did  him  much  displease. 


CRADLED     MOONS  293 

Boundless  was  the   Pilgrim's   rage, 
When  they   heard  of  each  misdeed 
In  which  Morton  did  engage, 
And  they   very  soon  agreed 
That  there  was  not  room  for  two 
Types  of  men  so  different 
In  this  virgin  land  so  new 
Where  they  made  their  settlement. 


So  they  then  and  there  declared 
They  would  end  this  wicked  scene, 
And  they  quietly  prepared 
Morton's  rule  to  contravene. 
Placing  Standish  at  their  head 
(Ne'er  was  there  a  braver  soul), 
To  the  north  they  quickly  sped, 
Where  loomed  high  the  gay  May-pole. 


In  the  midst  of  sport  profane, 
They  surprised  the  Bachanals, 
And  they  did  all  them  enchain 
As  a  band  of  criminals. 
Then  they  cut  the  May-pole  down, 
Burned  it  in  their  righteous  wrath, 
And  marched  back  to  Plymouth  town 
O'er  the  rough  and  wooded  path. 


Then  they  sent  bold  Morton  home 
And  his  men  to  England's  shore, 
And  forbade  them  e'er  to  roam 
In  this  place  for  evermore. 
Thus  an  end  comes  to  my  rhyme 
Of  the  settlement  begun, 
But  until  the  end  of  time 
Lives  the  name  of  Wollaston. 


CRADLED  MOONS 

THE  PEOPLE  I  MEET  ON  THE  TRAIN 

I  meet  them  each  morning,  I  meet  them  each  night, 
Home  faces  are  scowling,  some  faces  are  bright, 
Some  faces  are  beaming  with  love  and  delight, 

And  some  look  on  me  with  disdain ; 
Some  travel  in  pairs  and  some  go  alone, 
I'm  acquainted  with  few,  to  most  I'm  unknown, 
And  all  are  intent  on  the  thoughts  of  their  own, 

The  people  I  meet  on  the  train. 

Some,  hold  up  their  papers  and  shut  out  the  view, 
Some  usurp  seating  space  intended  for  two, 
Some  never  say  "If  you  please"  or  "Thank  you," 

And  some  have  a  grouch  which  is  plain ; 
But  some  I  have  seen  are  most  courteous  and  kind, 
They're  willing  to  share  all  the  comforts  they  find, 
It's  a  pleasure  to  travel  with  some  I've  in  mind, 

The  people  I  meet  on  the  train. 


Some  think  the  conductor  has  nothing  on  hand 
lint  to  ride  back  and  forth  and  admire  the  land. 
And  the  trutli  of  it  is  they  can  not  understand 

That  such  work  lias  danger  and  pain ; 
But  some  that  I  see  are  willing  to  give 
The  conductor  a  chance  to  honestly  live, 
And  are  never  the  least  bit  inquisitive, 

The  people  I  meet  on  the  train. 


I  wonder  if  you  have  been  one  of  the  throng 

I've  written  about  in  this  trivial  song, 

I  wonder  to  which  of  these  groups  you  belong, 

And  in  which  you  care  to  remain ; ; 
Do  you  wear  every  morning  a  frown  or  a  smile? 
Is  your  ride  back  and  forth  a  bore  or  worth  while? 
Now  which  of  these  classes  is  known  as  your  style? 

The  people  I  meet  on  the  train. 


CRADLED     MOONS  295 


ST.  LUKE  XXIV 


And  now  upon  the  first  morn  of  the  week 
As  the  faint  blush  of  dawn  bespake  the  day, 
They  came  in  silence  to  the  tomb  to  seek 
The  bod}-  of  the  Christ  which  hidden  lay. 
They  bore  within  their  palms  rich  oil  and  spice, 
A  final  tribute  to  their  Lord  who  died, 
'Twas  all  that  they  could  do,  and  must  suffice 
To  prove  their  love  for  Him,  the  crucified. 


The  stone  which  sealed  the  sepulchre  so  tight 
Against  all  friends  or  foes  was  rolled  away, 
And  by  that  yawning  tomb's  uncertain  light 
They  entered  in  and  found  not  mortal  clay. 
And  they  were  much  perplexed  and  cried  aloud. 
When  lo !  behold !  appeared  unto  them  there 
Two  men  with  garments  shining  like  a  cloud 
When  brilliant  with  the  sunset's  colors  rare. 


And  out  of  fear  they  bowed  down  to  the  earth. 

Mortality  is  ill-prepared  to  look 

Upon  the  grandeur  of  Celestial  birth, 

The  finite  ne'er  the  Infinite  can  brook. 

And  in  their  fear  they  listed  to  a  voice 

Which  said,  "Why  seek  ye  living  'mongst  the  dead? 

He  is  not  here,  oh,  troubled  hearts,  rejoice. 

But  risen  is  and  from  earth's  bounds  is  fled. 


296  CRADLED     MOONS 

• 

For  know  you  not  the  words  He  spoke  to  you 

When  preaching  by  the  Galileean  Lake, 

The  Son  of  Man  must  die.  and  life  renew 

Again,  to  prove  God's  love  for  mankind's  sake." 

And  when  they  heard  these  words  they  called  to  mind 

The  things  which  Christ  Himself  had  oft  foretold, 

Though  none  His  meaning  e'er  before  opined, 

They  knew  the  truth  and,  knowing  it,  grew  bold. 


And  then  again  with  new  light  in  their  eyes 

They  journeyed  to  the  place  from  whence  they  came, 

And  told  the  rest  of  them  which  did  comprise 

The  chosen  lot  to  teach  the  Master's  Name.        . 

And  it  was  Mary  Magdalene  who  spake 

And  said,  "Come,  see,"  for  some  believed  her  not, 

And  questioned  how  the  dead  interred  could  wake 

Or  rise  to  glory  from  that  guarded  spot. 


Then  Peter  rose  and  ran  with  all  his  might 
Unto  the  sepulchre  where  Christ  had  lain, 
And  stooping  down  beheld  the  linen  white 
Laid  by  itself  and  naught  did  it  contain. 
And  wondering  within  his  soul  he  passed 
From  out  the  tomb  into  the  light  of  day. 
Nor  doubted  more  that  what  his  Lord  forecast 
Had  been  fulfilled  in  God's  own  holy  way. 


Xow  two  of  them  that  way  went  to  the  town 

Which  was  Emmaus  called,  and  lay  about 

Full  threescore  furlongs  from  the  hills  that  crown 

Jerusalem,  the  pride  of  Jews  devout. 

And  as  they  spake  together  on  the  road, 

Behold  the  Christ  Himself  drew  near  and  walked 

Beside  them  to  the  place  of  their  abode, 

Aiul  listed  to  the  things  of  which  they  talked. 


CRADLED     MOONS 


297 


But  neither  knew  Him,  foi  r  t  war  g*^  heart? 

To  aught  **%f^A£  >-  fnd 
And  Jesus  said,    W*        e  those  tears  which  start 

To  talk  about,  and  *^f  °£  of  them  whose  name 
From  out  thine  eyes  .  &nd  said 

Was  known  as  C  <*  V  t  the  fame 

••Art  thou  a  strange*  «**£  ^  spread?" 

Of  things  which.  o 

tliei  i    "What  things  be  these?' 
And  He  said  unto  t  em  H 

And  answering  again  they  ^  eg 

-Of  Jesus  Whom  the  Scnbc  .  .  ^  ^^ 

Condemned  to  death  upon  t  ^^ 

Who  was  a  mighty  P«g«*  fellow-men, 


Yea,  certain  women  '  »«  »« 
ourneyed  early  to  tn 


Who  jou 


Was  now  alive  an    ,  dained  to  be 

that  these  th,         were  a 


Nor  did  they  see  the 


298  CRADLED     MOONS 

Then  said  He  unto  them,  "O  slow  of  heart 
And  fools,  to  read  the  prophets  and  believe 
Yet  cannot  see  that  Christ  must  do  His  part 
And  suffer  much,  His  glory  to  achieve." 
And  then  He  read  to  them  the  scriptural  law 
From  Moses  and  the  other  prophets,  too, 
Concerning  things  of  which  they'd  heard  and  saw 
About  Himself  and  proved  the  prophets  true. 


And  as  they  drew  nigh  to  the  little  town, 

He  made  as  though  He  would  have  gone  away, 

But  they  constrained  Him.  saying,  "Night  comes  down, 

Abide  with  us,  for  far  is  spent  the  day." 

And  as  He  sat  at  meat  with  them  He  took 

A  loaf  of  bread  and  blessed  it,  brake  and  gave 

To  each  of  them,  and  blindness  them  forsook. 

They  knew  Him,  risen  from  the  lonely  grave. 


And  lo,  behold !  as  they  both  looked  again 

He  left  them  there  and  vanished  from  their  sight, 

And  they  amazed  said  to  each  other  then, 

"Did  not  our  hearts  within  us  burn  with  light 

While  He  re-oped  the  scriptures  on  our  way 

And  talked  with  us,  while  we  knew  not  His  Name? 

Then  rising  up  in  the  same  hour  they 

In  haste   retraced  their  steps   from  whence  they   came. 


And  there  they  saw  disciples  gathered  round 
And  said  to  them,  "The  Lord  has  risen  indeed, 
For  even  now  He  hath  appeared  unbound 
And  shown  Himself  to  Simon  loose  and  freed." 
In  haste  they  told  the  rest  how  Christ  made  known 
Himself  when  at  the  table  breaking  bread, 
And  how  He  left  them  standing  there  alone 
In  doubt  and  fear,  not  knowing  where  He  sped. 


CRADLED     MOONS  299 

And  as  they  spoke,  behold !  with  them  there  stood 

\Vithin  their  midst  the  Lord  Himself,  Who  said, 

"Peace  be  to  you,"  but  they  in  troubled  mood 

Affrighted  were,  and  would  in  fear  have  fled, 

But  He  said  unto  them.  "Oh,  why  are  ye 

So  troubled  in  your  hearts  ?      Behold  my  hands 

And  see  My  feet,  and  know  that  what  I  be 

Is  flesh  and  bones  which  here  before  you  stands.'" 


And  then  He  showed  them  both  His  hands  and  feet, 
And  they  believed  in  joy,  yet  wondered  much, 
When  lo,  He  said,  "Have  ye  withal  to  eat, 
For  flesh  and  bone  doth  oft  require  such?" 
They  handed  Him  a  piece  of  broiled  fish 
And  honeycomb  wherewith  to  stay  His  fast, 
And  He  did  eat  before  them  of  each  dish, 
And  spake  these  words  to  them  upon  the  past : 


"While  I  was  yet  with  you  these  things  must  be 

Which  written  were  by  prophets  in  the  law 

From  Moses  down,  and  all  concerned  Me 

The  things  of  which  you've  listed  to  and  saw." 

Then  opened  He  their  understanding  so 

They  might  the  scripture  comprehend  indeed, 

And  said  to  them,  "It  written  is,  you  know, 

That  Christ  should  die  and  from  the  grave  be  freed. 


And  that  He  should  ascend  unto  His  heavenly  throne 

On  the  third  day  from  that  on  which  He  died," 

And  rising  thus,  by  this  same  act  atone 

For  mankind's  sins,  and  peace  with  God  provide, 

And  that  remission  of  all  sins  be  told 

Unto  the  multitude  if  it  repent, 

And  to  all  nations  they  should  then  unfold 

The  truths  of  which  each  was  recipient. 


300  CRADLED     MOONS 

And  they  should  start  from  out  Jerusalem 

And  preach  His  Name  and  things  they  witnessed  there, 

Nor  ever  cease."     And  then  He  said  to  them, 

"Behold  I  send  and  herewith  now  declare 

The  promise  of  My  Father  upon  you, 

And  bid  ye  tarry  in  the  city  till 

The  power  from  high  shall  all  your  hearts  imbue, 

And  God's  pure  love  shall  your  whole  being  fill." 


And  then  He  led  them  out  to  Bethany, 
And  lifted  up  His  hands  and  blessed  them  all, 
And  while  He  blessed  them,  ere  a  one  could  see, 
He  left  them  there,  and  answered  Heaven's  call. 
And  they  returned  and  worshipped  in  great  joy, 
And  daily  in  the  temple  raised  their  voice, 
In  love  and  praise  their  song  they  did  employ, 
.With  grateful  hearts  they  prayed  and  did  rejoice. 

AMEN. 


A  DROP  OF  INK 

"A  drop  of  ink  makes  millions  think," 
But  when  the  ink  is  steeped  in  gall, 
And  what  it  writes  besmirches  all, 
Then  better  for  this  world  of  woe 
That  this   small  drop   of  ink   should   flow 
Into  the  deep  and  dark  blue  sea 
And  dissipate  its  energy. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUN  15  1955 


Form  L9-42m-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 


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